


When Five + Things Happened in a Slow Purple Burn

by samus errand (rosiekins)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Crying Yuri, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining, Sappy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-01 21:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiekins/pseuds/samus%20errand
Summary: A story chronicling the evolution of Otabek and Yuri's relationship. After so much pining and uncertainty, one of them is seriously injured, and the other is forced to confront their feelings head on and do something about it. Friendship turns to something more, but it's not all smooth sailing from there. Eventual smut, lots of sap, a dollop of angst, quite a bit of distress, but a happy ending for all.~





	1. Otabek contemplates Yuri

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is the first fanfic I've shared in ten odd years. (I'm very nervous.) The story is complete; it just needs to be edited. I've been writing it since February, but didn't want to even think about considering sharing it until it was finished. And I still have doubts. But, here I am!
> 
> This is a slow burn, with angst and suffering later on, and smut towards the end. The rating will probably go up, I suppose. (I'll have to research the difference between M and E.) Mostly, this story has lots and lots of pining and is extremely lovey dovey, and should probably have a special warning for sap. 
> 
> This story is long. The first chapter is short, but most of them aren't. Each chapter is either from Yuri or Otabek's POV. (Otabek has more chapters from his perspective, but Yuri's chapters are usually longer.) 
> 
> My original plan was for this to be a Five Times When Yuri and Otabek Watched Each Other Sleep and One Time When somethingsomething, but then it got out of control. So, they watch each other sleep a lot. 
> 
> (Also, Welcome to the Madness did not happen in the universe of my fic, mostly because I started writing it before the clip was released. And it would have made the story a lot shorter, lbr.)  
> 

The first time Otabek wound up with a Yuri Plisetsky in his bed was the night after Yuri’s first senior world championships. Yuri had won gold, Victor silver, and Yuuri bronze. Otabek placed fifth behind Christophe. His own disappointment had been assuaged by Yuri’s victory, hard earned after placing fourth in the short program (and losing Nationals to Victor a few months earlier.) 

The ice stadium monitors had replayed Otabek yelling “davai” from the boards when Yuri took the ice, and Yuri returning the favor. Though the crowd had been more excited by Victor and Yuuri’s enthusiasm for each other, expressed in howls of celebration and, after Victor’s world record breaking short program, Yuuri mauling him in the kiss and cry with actual kissing. 

“Disgusting,” Yuri had complained from the hallway, where the monitors replayed the scene and the crowd’s explosive reaction. 

Otabek had said nothing, though he’d wondered (not worried) about Yuri’s reaction. Was it just his natural scorn for the Victor/Katsuki duo, or for public scenes of affection in general? Or was it the mere sight of two men kissing that he found disgusting?

Otabek couldn’t help but ruminate on this subject as he only sort of watched the movie and mostly watched Yuri, who was splayed on his back upon Otabek’s hotel bed, his head propped on a pillow that only happened to be on Otabek’s knees. 

Yuri wore the gold medal around his neck (despite Yakov’s orders for Yuri to keep it in the portable safe, neatly folded.) His gray hooded sweater covered most of his hair, though it couldn’t contain all of it, as several thick blond strands fanned out against his cheek. He was on his phone, on Instagram no doubt. 

Otabek was still surprised that Yuri was with him and not at the banquet, or alone in his own room. Victor and Yuuri hadn’t even shown up, which should have been an incentive for Yuri to stay. Yet he’d approached Otabek and said, with the smirk of an inside joke, “I’m leaving, are you coming with me or not?” 

Otabek could tolerate large social gatherings if people left him alone. That was part of what he liked about his nights as a DJ -- he could be in the center of a chaotic dance floor, surrounded by people, and still be invisible. He was central to the experience, without the burden of interaction. 

So, he could have remained at the banquet in a similar state of invisibility, people watching and eating free food. But when Yuri accosted him with those lethal eyes, waiting to find out if Otabek would leave with him, it wasn’t a choice as much as a reflex. 

Now Yuri held the phone up at selfie distance and then continued to attack the screen with fingers fluid in cellular touch. A little smirk played in the corner of his mouth. 

“What are you doing, Yuri?” Otabek asked. 

“Instagram,” Yuri replied. “That idiot JJ posted this.” He sat up and crawled over to Otabek, thrusting the cellphone in his face. It took a moment for the Instagram illiterate Otabek to translate the shorthand. The picture was clear enough: JJ in a bed, his bandaged leg elevated in pillows, vases full of flowers covering every surface within the frame. Below the photo read, “Apologies to my fans who missed me at worlds today, but #JJStyle will be back next year. For now, I hope today's medalists enjoy their hollow victories.” 

“So I posted this.” Yuri jerked the phone away to do some tapping, and then shoved it into Otabek’s face again. This time Otabek took the phone so he could look closely at the photo. It was Yuri from moments earlier, seen from above, the gold medal nestled on his chest, his green eyes burning with both ire and mischief. The caption read, “@JJStyle: world record free skate = solid gold. Bye Felicia.” 

“Who’s Felicia?” Otabek asked. 

“It’s an American thing,” Yuri replied, crawling forward so that he could sit beside Otabek. “It’ll piss him off.” 

Otabek studied the photo for a few minutes longer. It was a good picture, the color slightly enhanced by a “filter,” no doubt, but Yuri always photographed well. Otabek had followed his instagram (unofficially) for years, at first with jealous fascination, and later with true admiration. Despite Yuri’s surly attitude and his penchant for antagonizing his rivals, his online presence highlighted his commitment to the sport and his devotion to his fans. 

Otabek gave Yuri his phone back and Yuri immediately began swiping and tapping, the little smirk creasing his mouth again.

Yuri reclined against the corner of Otabek’s pillow, his willowy body stretched at an angle. Otabek returned his attention to the TV screen, though he’d stopped watching once Yuri had lost interest, hurling insults at the characters before abandoning the movie in favor of youtube clips of music. He was already planning his programs for the next season. 

He’d asked Otabek about his music, too, had complained that the judges had underscored Otabek’s programs, that his components should have been higher than “the pole dancer’s” (Christophe), was livid that he’d had an under rotation call. Otabek just listened in amusement. He had under rotated the jump. But Yuri’s fury on his behalf was nice. 

Yuri yawned and stretched and put his phone down. He scoffed. 

“Why are they going into the basement when there’s a demon in the house? Idiots. No one in real life would behave that way.” He paused. “Except maybe Victor.” 

“Victor seems to have a reasonable fear of ghosts,” Otabek said -- contrary mostly just for the fun of it. 

Yuri scoffed again. “Victor would try to befriend a ghost. He’d smile at it idiotically and then he’d see something shiny and wander away.”

Otabek arched an eyebrow. He found himself entertaining a new thought: maybe Yuri had a crush on Victor, and was jealous by the man’s relationship with the Japanese Yuuri, and frustrated by Victor’s cluelessness. 

“It was odd that Victor wasn’t at the banquet,” Otabek remarked. 

“No it wasn’t. He’s probably alone with his piggy, being disgusting.” Now Otabek’s suspicions flared brighter. 

“You don’t like them together,” he stated. 

“They’re disgusting, and they’re idiots. They’re perfect for each other. I wish they’d just retire already and get married so I wouldn’t have to keep watching them hump each other at skating events.” 

Otabek hummed in response, but in fact he was absurdly relieved. He didn’t even want to acknowledge the full scope of his relief. 

On the one hand, it was reasonable to feel relief, knowing that Yuri probably wasn’t a homophobe. Also reasonable was the relief of knowing that Yuri wasn’t in love with a much older man. Otabek didn’t want his sixteen year old friend to make such poor choices. 

He glanced over at Yuri and saw that his eyes had fallen shut. So close up, his pale eyelashes were in fact quite long. Yuri squirmed, maneuvering more onto his side, his arms flush against Otabek’s right upper arm, his cheek pressed to Otabek’s shoulder. Even dozing, he looked annoyed, his little mouth drawn into a pout. 

Their flights departed close enough for them to leave together (5:30 a.m.) but they hadn’t discussed spending the night together. The very thought struck Otabek as indecent, though Yuri was the essence of innocence beside him, curled up in an appropriately catlike fashion. 

The gold medal around his neck belied the image. Yuri was a world champion. He did five quads ‘tano style. He’d fought like a prize fighter for the win. After the short program, the press had already deemed Victor the winner. It was the better story -- a beloved five time world champion returning mid-season and winning world’s, with his protégés taking spots two and three. Oh, and one of them was his fiance. But then Yuri stormed the ice, using his anger to his advantage, and Otabek was in awe all over again by the young man.

Anger had never helped Otabek’s skating. His strength was self control, shutting out his surroundings and embodying the empty spaces. But Yuri tapped into emotion with the boldness of a warrior. To be certain, he didn’t yet harness it with much precision. He lacked Victor’s sophistication and showmanship, and Katsuki’s heart-on-his-sleeve vulnerability, but his fury was uniquely his own. A quality that could not be taught, as intangible as the mettle of his soldier eyes. 

Otabek wanted to touch him now. His cheek, his hair. Not with passion, but for the texture of such closeness. Instead, he didn’t move, because if he moved, Yuri might wake up and put real distance between them. If he woke up and felt Otabek’s fingers in his hair, he’d realize the secret of Otabek’s tenderness. 

But then his phone chimed and he plucked it from the nightstand to silence it. The noise was a twitter notification. He frowned and puzzled over the text. 

“Yes it’s a leg probably @altin_otabek!” the tweet, from an agapeangel17, read. He figured out that it was a reply to some other tweet, which contained Yuri’s picture of himself from earlier. Someone had outlined Otabek’s leg with red and scrawled “leg” above it. 

Otabek scrolled through dozens of such tweets, in which Yuri’s “angels” argued and theorized about Otabek’s leg and exactly what it was doing under Yuri’s head. 

Such speculation wasn’t exactly new. When the “angels” witnessed Otabek jet Yuri away on his bike, the hysteria had been immediate and explosive. He suddenly had thousands of “followers” on his twitter and instagram accounts. He made the mistake of reading the comments section of one article (a fan written account of “the hero kidnapped the fairy!”) in which his sexual orientation was passionately debated, and many comments contained some variation of “I ship it” with an abundance of hearts and rather odd animated gifs. 

At first, he’d been disturbed. The sudden invasion into his personal life, the rabid interest of these strange people left him feeling exposed and pecked at. He was used to the attention that came with his very public sport, and there’d even been a time when he wished that he were more popular, but after experiencing the mere periphery of Yuri’s fan attention, he’d changed his mind. 

Yuri certainly didn’t like the attention, either, at least not offline. He retracted like a cat under a couch at the first whiff of a real life fangirl. But online, he played with them night and day, shared his life with the heedless generosity of a teenager still grappling with his identity. 

Otabek suspected that he was drawn to make contact with Yuri at this stage in his life precisely for its transitory nature. When Otabek turned sixteen, his own self concept was at its height of angst. After years of pressure to hone his artistry in only one acceptable way (balletic and graceful) he’d decided to chart his own course and answer the call within himself. He would skate with militant precision and choose music that lit up the gray places inside of him. He would use his athleticism like a well honed blade, not neglect it in a pointless attempt to cultivate the kind of artistry he would never have. 

Like Yuri, he’d viewed his competitors as enemies (not difficult to do when JJ Leroy was his frequent rink mate.) He decided he needed no one, which was a convenient decision, since he was alone in Canada. He had no meaningful relationships, anyway. (At around this time, he discovered that he did like men. He’d known it all along, in the dark corners of his mind, but he’d refused to directly acknowledge it until he found himself making out with a hockey player semi-regularly in the equipment room.) He got so good at being alone, that eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, and returned to Almaty. 

He was angry. He’d skate angry, and thus poorly. He’d lash out at home, and then wallow in guilt. He wasn’t progressing, he wasn’t good enough, he wished he’d never started skating in the first place. 

He started exploring other interests. He got his motorcycle license and wound up clubbing a few times, preferred the music, practiced sets in his room, and landed gigs as a DJ. He continued to train and compete, contemplating retirement, when he put together two programs he loved and started winning. Everything happened fast, then. The chaos of his young life plateaued as suddenly as unpaved road to fresh asphalt. 

And then, for the first time in five years, he found himself in the same room as Yuri Plisetsky, and the road careened into a winding dirt path. When he saw the diminutive blond yowling at everyone in sight, when Yuri set those eyes on him and called him asshole, his chest tightened just enough to let him know that he was utterly fucked. 

Now, Yuri was curled up in a ball beside him, his breath evening out in sleep. _I know you_ , he thought, his gaze tracing the line of Yuri’s jaw, tense despite sleep, despite the gold. _I know what it’s like to be unreachable, to fear the sting of weakness, of loss, beyond all other things. I see you, and I choose you anyway. I choose you because._

When Yuri emerged from the storm cloud of sixteen, Otabek suspected he would still be ferocious, but hopefully he would feel more at peace. Hopefully, he would still be Otabek’s friend when he discovered how many friends he already had. 

Otabek looked again at the twitter photo and his leg outlined in red, and thought, _Yes, I was there; that was mine._


	2. Yuri contemplates Otabek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shortish chapter, this time from Yuri's POV. Poor bb Yuri. <3
> 
> Takes place a few months after chapter one.

It was almost 10 p.m. St Petersburg time, 1 a.m. Almaty time. Yuri found himself considering both time zones throughout the day, in the back of his mind like ambient noise. When he woke up in the morning, he’d think things like, _5 a.m. my time, 8 a.m. Beka time, he’s been awake for at least four hours and is at the rink now doing back-to-back run throughs of his long program because he is insane._

At this particular moment, the distinction was relevant, as he was skyping Otabek and had been for the past few hours. His friend was sitting at a kitchen table, the screen providing the only light (save a lamp from the living room, which only emerged when Otabek stretched or got up.) The bluish wash of computer light made his eyes look black, and set off the sharp angles of his face. 

Yuri was in his kitchen, too, making his grandfather’s signature dish. He had his camera positioned to capture the process, the counter top a mess of ingredients and containers and dirty dishes. 

When Otabek had first suggested Yuri’s cooking demonstration, Yuri had felt stupidly stupid. He’d performed live in front of thousands of people many times, and yet removing ingredients from the fridge while Otabek watched from the computer screen set his pulse to the surface of his skin. 

Then Otabek had said, in his deadpan manner, “Aren’t you going to explain what you’re doing?” 

Yuri held the knife still for a moment and smirked. “This is an onion,” he said. “For those idiots in the audience who have never seen one before, this is what it looks like, and this is how you are supposed to chop it up.” 

Otabek hummed and reclined slightly in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt, and Yuri eyeballed him appraisingly. He looked stronger than Yuri had ever noticed, the muscles in his arms pleasingly contoured in the near darkness. 

_Asshole_ , Yuri thought, mostly as a counter attack to the alarming things happening in his chest. 

He chopped the onion briskly, determined, now, to demonstrate his own agility. (And to show off the technique he had learned from an onion chopping youtube tutorial.) 

“Careful with that knife, Yura,” Otabek said, and he was actually frowning in something like concern. 

“Bite me, Altin,” but he was forced to stop, the poisonous fumes of the onion burning his eyes out of his head. He turned away from the computer screen, cursing and grinding the hem of the apron into his eyes. 

“Yuri,” Otabek called, his voice tinted with amusement. “Maybe put the rest in the blender?” 

“No,” he growled, returning to the cutting board with a grimace. He couldn’t imagine Otabek cowering over an onion. The smooth bastard probably wouldn’t even flinch. 

When the stupid onion was finally reduced to a pile of shimmering chunks, Yuri’s vision settled enough to realize that Otabek was watching him with an expression of amusement and something more inscrutable. Something that made the spot at the apex between Yuri’s ribs tug hot. 

“What?” he roared. “Next time we’re together, onion chopping contest.” 

“Mmm. I’d rather not be involved in anything that would damage your eyes, Yura.” He spoke stoically enough, and of course the comment was innocent, nothing but a boring, please-be-sensible-about-your-ocular-health sort of thing, except maybe it wasn’t. After all, he had commented on Yuri’s eyes before...

“Excuses,” Yuri bit, busying himself with the other ingredients and tossing his hair over his face to hide the flush crawling up his neck. 

“What are you doing now?” Otabek asked, his voice oddly muffled. Yuri whirled around and saw that his friend had his chin propped on his folded arms, and was doing a rather shitty job at stifling a yawn. 

“You’re tired,” Yuri accused. “Go to bed!” 

Otabek shook his head, no, his eyebrows twitching together so quick, someone less attentive than Yuri would have missed it. But Yuri had grown fluent in Otabek Altin’s facial language. It wasn’t difficult, given the man’s stoic default. Any deviation was alarming. 

“I’d rather not,” Otabek said. “Keep talking, Yura. Unless you’re tired.” 

Yuri scoffed. “It’s only ten here. It’s one in the morning there.” He was rolling the dough now, which was his favorite part. He’d refrigerated it for most of the day, so it took some kneading for it to soften up, and he loved the gradual warmth and malleability of it beneath his fingers. 

“Tomorrow is my day off,” Otabek said, though Yuri already knew that. A few times a month, Otabek DJ’ed on such nights, and would skype Yuri from his laptop. Yuri would lay in bed and play on his phone, Otabek’s set in the background, his profile bathed in the neon club lights. Yuri would peer up at Otabek from his phone and watch his face, expressionless and yet not in the way that only Otabek’s face could be. His dark eyes were mere slivers of onyx (the word Yuri had settled on after much deliberation) and he moved his hands with a grace he insisted he didn’t have, his hair falling messily around his headphones. 

Yes, Yuri often lapsed into stares, even snuggling into his nest of pillows to stare more comfortably. So what? His cat would join him, spurring Otabek to remark that Yuri and Potya looked exactly alike. 

When Otabek wasn’t at the club, however, he usually went to bed at midnight. Yuri had sensed traces of something off about him since the beginning of their call, but he was shit at acknowledging such things in a tactful manner. If it was the Katsudon acting troubled, Yuri would scream at him to snap out of it. When Mila or Victor or Georgi started whining about some non-crisis or another, he’d hurl insults and flee the vapors of drama. 

But this was Otabek, the first actual friend he’d ever had. He wanted to know what was bothering him. He wanted to be the sort of person someone like Otabek would confide in, and suddenly he was bothered by how woefully ill equipped he was for the task. 

For now, he granted Otabek’s meager request to “keep talking,” explaining the process of forming the rolls and filling them just right and then he put them in the oven. 

“It’s too bad you’re not here,” Yuri said. “Pirozhki is best hot. But I will send you a few in a container. Reheat them in the oven, not the shitty microwave.” 

“You’ll have to write that down, verbatim,” Otabek deadpanned. 

“Humph, I was planning on it, among other things.” He sat down at the table, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down over his fingers, which had gotten cold. His stupid fingers were always cold, despite years of ice exposure. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Yuri asked, even though he had a good idea. Otabek always went to the outdoor market, and spent time with his family. 

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he replied, but there went his eyebrows again, twitching as though some spot inside of him jumped in pain. 

“What is wrong with you?!” Yuri demanded, and Otabek’s eyes widened maybe by .001 degrees, but Yuri saw the change because he knew those eyes very well. “I--I mean, you seem upset or something, I don’t know, sorry,” he grumped, blushing so ferociously, he would have welcomed an asteroid hitting his face at that moment. 

Otabek hummed, his mouth quirking in something like fondness, and Yuri hoped he wasn’t finding him “cute.” He almost would have preferred anger. 

“No, Yura, you’re right. It’s a family matter. My sister received her acceptance letter today, to UC medical.” 

Yuri gasped. He couldn’t help it. Otabek had been updating him on Mehli’s application process for the past six months, and it was a topic that, without fail, roused the severe default of Otabek’s features into something softer. 

“Why didn’t you mention this sooner, asshole?!” 

Otabek sat back, arms folded across his chest, his eyes trained on some spot on the table. 

“Isn’t it good news?” Yuri persisted. From the way Otabek had talked about it, Yuri had safely assumed it was in fact the best news. Mehli had dreamed of nothing else since childhood -- University of California medical school. She’d already been awarded the bolashak international scholarship to pay for her educational expenses. Clearly, she was a genius of some kind, and now her hopes would be realized, and wasn’t this a happy ending worthy of any movie?

“My parents don’t want her to go,” Otabek said. “Not with the current political climate in the states.” 

Yuri blinked. Political climate? Of course he was aware of the the cluster fuck that was American politics, though the bulk of his knowledge was limited to memes and twitter (Leo de la Iglesia was particularly informative.) But Yuri rarely gave the issues much thought; he didn’t live in the states, and he tried not to think of the role his own political leaders played in the cluster fuck. 

“They’re worried about her safety,” Otabek went on, raking a hand through his hair, his eyes now cast somewhere to the right, worry deepening them and furrowing his brow. “Muslims are a prime target for harassment, assault...” He trailed off, not voicing the worst potential outcome, but Yuri felt the ugly word spread through him, and curled his fingers against the table top. “Kazakhstan is not a banned country, but they might still detain her upon arrival. She does wear a hijab.” 

Yuri knew this, and felt stupid for not putting the pieces together faster. He remembered the picture Otabek had sent him only days earlier, of Mehli sitting beside him at a cafe. Burgundy hijab framing her youthful and exuberant face. It was captioned, Mehli says hi. 

“I’m sorry, Yura,” Otabek said, and he sounded so tired. “I didn’t mean to burden you with these problems.” He rested his forehead in his hand and rubbed at one eye. “I should just go to bed.” 

“No,” Yuri said. “You’re not burdening me. I want to help!” Even his empathy sounded angry, but then again, he was angry. The fact that Otabek’s sister had her ambitions threatened because of her religion and ethnicity? There wasn’t anything more infuriating to Yuri in that moment. He thought of what he would do if his skating career faced such obstacles...if he had to endure prejudice for something completely beyond his control. But, no. He had never experienced that kind of adversity. He was allowed to be exactly who he was. In fact, he was an asshole, and people loved him, anyway. 

“You’ve already helped,” Otabek said, warmth settling in his eyes, softening his mouth. 

“Haaah? I’ve done nothing!” Stupid Beka, reassuring Yuri for failing at reassurance. 

“You listened. Even before I said a thing, you were listening.”

Yuri’s face crawled with intense heat. More than that, something weird was happening in his stomach, hot but skittering. 

“Knock it off,” Yuri said. “You’re changing the subject. You’ve only told me what your parents think about all this. What do you think?” 

Otabek stared at him, and for a moment, Yuri worried that he’d gone too far. Maybe Otabek had already said everything he wanted to say. But then he said, “I’m worried, too. But I still want her to go, because she still wants to go. It is her decision. Tomorrow, my parents want me to side with them when they talk to her at dinner, but I won’t do it.” 

“And now they’re all pissed at you.” 

“They will be. Obedience to parents is...important in my family.” Otabek’s gaze drifted around the room, and Yuri felt a surge of distress for his friend as understanding dawned on him. This whole thing was a huge deal, a pivotal family crisis. 

“Beka...” The helplessness in his voice frustrated him, as did the miles between them. He was certain that, if they were in the same room together, he’d have the courage to grab his hand. 

“What would you do, Yuri.” His eyes locked on Yuri’s with the same inscrutable steel as the first time he’d looked at him in the hotel lobby. 

Yuri scowled. “I don’t think you want to know.” 

“Yes, I do,” and his mouth quirked over his words in amusement. “Tell me.” 

“If I had a little sister, and my shit head parents didn’t want her to go away to college, I’d disagree with them on principle because they are assholes. I’d tell them to fuck themselves and then I’d travel with my sister and tell anyone who fucked with her to fuck themselves. But that’s how I’d act in my own family. If you and I traded bodies or something, and I had to behave myself...” He considered this, but quickly shook his head in defeat. “I couldn’t do it. People can’t make ultimatums, not even parents. Especially parents. I’d burn that bridge down. But you won’t, because you’re calm and reasonable. You’ll ninja your way into control of the situation.” 

“I’m not as strong as you think, Yura.” His face was in default stoic mode, but something fragile shimmered in his eyes. 

“Yes you are. You’re honest all the time. Most people don’t have the courage to be honest even once in their damn lives. It’s impossible not to respect that. Anyone who claims otherwise is lying. And, you’re a good person. You’re helping your sister because it’s the right thing to do, and it’s who you are. You can’t not be who you are. Especially you, Beka. I’d be pretty pissed off if you changed.” 

Otabek was staring at him in complete shock -- meaning, his eyes were widened by .10 degrees and fixed on Yuri’s face like it had turned into something...else. 

“What?!” Yuri demanded through his teeth. He was not blushing again. Otabek shook his head, his composure regained so utterly, it was almost like he hadn’t just given Yuri such a look. A look like...no. Yuri shoved the thought down, by its face. 

“Nothing, Yura.” Humph. For someone Yuri had just praised for his honesty, he sure could be a filthy liar. There was still a whole lot of something in his face, and charged unsaid between them. Yuri squirmed in his chair, almost regretting that he’d gone and run his mouth, except that Otabek did look decidedly less tortured. 

“I had the same thought,” Otabek said. “About accompanying Mehli.” 

“Of course you did, it’s a great idea.” Yuri paused. “For how long, though?” 

“Just until she’s settled,” Otabek said, resting his chin in his hand. “If she wants me to come with her, that is.” 

“She does,” Yuri said. 

Otabek’s mouth quirked again. “You know this for a fact.” 

Yuri nearly said, Of course she does, who wouldn’t want you with them, I know I would. But he stopped himself from sounding so damn thirsty. “No, I’m sure she finds you very irritating,” Yuri said. “With all of your idle chatter and emotional outbursts.” 

Otabek hummed, and Yuri was disturbed by how much he loved that sound. 

“Anyway,” Otabek said. “Thank you for listening. And for everything you said.” 

If Yuri could have turned into a tiny ball and rolled under the stove, he would have. He had never had an interaction like this before in his life. Someone thanking him for being nice. 

Every instinct demanded he fire off the flares of his nerves by yelling things. But this was Beka; he wanted this to happen again. 

“I’m--you’re--don’t be stupid!” He slapped the table top, and Otabek’s mouth twitched again in amusement. “You’d better just tell me how tomorrow goes, Altin! I mean, if you want to or whatever.” 

Otabek just stared at him, that damn warmth in his eyes. “Of course, Yura.” 

Yuri nodded once, like he wasn’t self destructing, and jumped up to check on his cooking. He threw open the oven door and inspected the pirozhkis pointlessly. They still had five minutes, he knew that already. He just needed to move around, to suspend the nervous energy that threatened to consume him. 

He returned to the table and froze. Otabek’s head was slumped on his folded arms, and his eyes were closed. Like he was sleeping. 

Yuri crossed his arms and frowned at the sight, waited for Otabek to sense that he was being watched, but Yuri could hear him breathing the rhythm of sleep. 

His nails dug into his forearms as he committed the rare sight to memory. The almost plaintive arch of Otabek’s eyebrows, the half moon indentations of his eyelids, the long, pretty slant of his actual eyes. And his mouth, soft but creased at the edges with the tension he carried. 

Yuri was pretty sure that friends didn’t normally watch each other sleep like this. Like hearts were flying from their damn eyes. Like all he wanted to do was reach through the computer screen and touch the back of his hand to Otabek’s face. 

(Victor and the pig would love this.)

(But what was this?) 

A certainly bigger question than Yuri’s denial, bigger than his need for self preservation, had taken root in his chest. He could feel his way around it all he wanted, but it was still there, stubborn and horrifying. 

The _feelings_. His first real friend in his stupid real life, and he’d gone off and....

He turned with the familiar rush of anger and removed the pan from the oven. He switched off the egg timer. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Otabek was still asleep. 

Yuri knew he should wake him up, make fun of him, and order him to bed. Otherwise, when Otabek woke up on his own, he’d wonder why Yuri hadn’t. Instead, Yuri worked extra quietly, cleaning his mess, wrapping up the pirozhkis, setting some aside to mail to Otabek, taking one with him to his room, laptop in his other hand. He sat the laptop on his bed gingerly, as though jostling the screen would also jostle Otabek awake, and climbed onto his bed with equal care. Potya stirred from her slumber on his pillow and padded into his lap. 

Normally he would talk to her, give her crap for shedding, vent to her about his day, but this time he just scooped her up and got on his phone without a sound. As he scrolled through his notifications, he considered taking a picture of his laptop screen, but concluded that he wasn’t that creepy. 

His eyes flicked often to Otabek’s slumbering form. It was time to wake him up. Sleeping like that would hurt his neck and leave his body sore. But when would Yuri get this chance again? When he’d fallen asleep in Otabek’s hotel room after worlds, he’d woken up to Otabek’s alarm and found him already dressed and ready to go. Otabek never fell asleep on their flights, he never dozed off when they watched movies. Yuri didn’t realize how badly he’d wanted to see Otabek sleep until now. Because witnessing the vulnerability of his slumber made it easier to pretend that they were something more than friends. 

The cold truth of his strange behavior broke the warm spell over his chest. 

He put down his phone and considered Otabek’s face. Exhaustion had pulled him under, but had trust made him stay asleep? He’d trusted Yuri with his problems. Nobody had ever confided in Yuri the way Otabek had that night. His gratitude towards Yuri was thus unacceptable; he couldn’t know the value of what he had given Yuri. The trust, but also the respect. 

_Beka_...absurdly, Yuri touched his fingertips to the screen, right on the curve of Otabek’s cheekbone. It was stupid, and yet Yuri’s whole body flushed with heat when he remembered the look Otabek had given him. Like the way Victor sometimes looked at Katsudon...

The very idea made Yuri squirm with self loathing. He was being an idiot. Otabek saw him as a brother, a brother he respected, liked, maybe even loved. A brother’s love. 

“Oi, Beka,” he called, and yet he watched avidly as Otabek sat up, his eyes blinking wide in alarm. Then, squinting against the light he found Yuri. 

“You’re tired,” Yuri said, smirking at him. “Go to bed already.” 

“You’re in your room,” Otabek noted, his sleep-drunk face adorably grumpy. 

“I’m done cooking, where else was I supposed to go? I kept waiting for you to wake up on your own, but you didn’t. So, you’re welcome.” 

Otabek hummed, a little smile playing on his mouth. “Goodnight, Yura.” 

Yuri’s heart sank a little, like it always did when they ended their calls. But it fell a few feet lower tonight. 

“Night Beka.” 

The chat window turned black over one final second of Otabek’s tiny smile. Yuri shut his laptop and busied his hands and eyes with his phone, trying not to feel too forlorn. But his room had suddenly transformed into some ordinary place. Even sleeping, Otabek was everything. 

_Stop it_ , he ordered himself. He scrolled and scrolled through twitter, absorbing nothing, before tossing his phone aside and closing his eyes. Otabek’s face was still there, and so was the feeling, untouchable. He dragged Potya onto his chest and cuddled her pathetically. She purred and stared into his eyes with her ancient cat wisdom, and he shook his head, beseeching her not to tell. She closed her eyes slowly, and the look said, _Idiot._

“I know, okay? Leave me alone.” He hugged her as if to add, _But don’t go_. She didn’t; she understood. Otabek did, too. One of the many reasons why...

He sighed. He was fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bolashak international scholarship is a real thing; I read about it in a book about Kazakhstan. I did a little bit of research for this fic! Did you know that in Kazakhstan, more people are fluent in Russian than Kazakh? Quite convenient for our pairing, and another sign that it was meant to be. <3


	3. A dance of cold blue rationality and dangerously simmering red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a longer chapter, from Otabek's perspective. Ever so much pining and angst. (Also introducing Otabek's hair fetish.)

For the first time, Yuri was going to watch Otabek DJ in person. They were in Vancouver, BC for the Grand Prix Final, and Otabek had arranged to perform at a club where a former rinkmate worked as a bartender. Otabek was determined to surprise his friend, and maybe (but not really, not officially, not in a romantic way _at all_ ) make the night special for him. When he’d seen Yuri last in Hasetsu for the Japan Open, they’d met up in a cafe every morning to share music. Based on Yuri’s feedback, he’d secretly compiled a Yura Playlist for his set that night, including excerpts from Yuri’s former and future programs. 

But the good anticipation he’d felt had turned cold when Yuri finished a shocking sixth place at the GPF. Yuri, who had grown five inches over the summer, most of it in the span of three weeks, hadn’t yet adjusted to his new body. (Otabek hadn’t, either. When he’d met Yuri at the airport in Japan, he’d been stunned to find himself eye-level with the formerly petite teen. He was all arms and legs, and his hair was longer, too, nearly touching his biceps.) 

(Yuri had always been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but now it was just getting ridiculous.) 

Yuri had only barely made it to the final, finishing third at both grand prix events, his programs mired by errors typical of someone adjusting to a new body. 

But Yuri had never been typical, and he certainly wasn’t a mere “someone.” At the final, he’d been in third place after the short program, and when he took the ice for the long, Otabek knew too well the ferocity in his eyes. Skating angry had served him well in the past, but with his mind was still not in sync with the new dimensions of his body. 

Otabek watched from the backstage monitors as Yuri fell on his opening quad and his triple axel, popped his second quad, and turned his next quad into a triple-triple combination that he barely held onto. 

Nearby reporters were muttering words like “imploding” and Otabek wanted to show them what that word really looked like, but with his fists and their faces. Their remarks were utterly predictable, and that was the problem. With every error Yuri made, he gave more of himself to the ice, his eyes burning so hard, only a fool would dismiss Yuri’s performance as an implosion. He didn’t let one moment go without reaching with everything he had. 

When Yuri finished, his lips nearly touching the ice in his ending pose, all Otabek could think was, _I love you, I fucking love you._

After the medal ceremony, Otabek wanted to stow away his silver medal before seeing Yuri, but Yuri had been waiting for him back stage. 

“Should have been gold,” be said with a smirk, more than loud enough for the passing gold medalist JJ to hear. 

“Young Russian skaters, there are so many of them,” JJ said, seemingly to no one in particular, but then he faced Yuri with an arrogant smile. “Say hello to Maxim for me.” 

Maxim had won the junior GPF, and the hype surrounding him was huge. 

“Come on, Yura,” Otabek said, since the ice tiger’s teeth were grinding in an all too familiar preface to screaming. 

“Yes, _Yura_ , go with your bodyguard,” JJ sneered. 

Otabek looked at him, then, thinking of all the ways he could make JJ very sorry for even breathing, and the man’s face actually wavered in something more like fear. Then he left, swinging his arms with excessive bravado. 

“Humph,” Yuri tsked. “He’s probably running off to change his diaper. He’s terrified of you.” 

_Not terrified enough_ , Otabek thought, as he walked with Yuri to the locker rooms.

“Don’t you dare fucking console me,” Yuri said, his voice soft and just for Otabek. “I’ve already been manhandled by Victor and Katsudon, and even fucking Yakov is fucking sad. Everyone who is doubting me right now will be very sorry when I come back from this, so save your pity for them.” 

Otabek allowed a small smile. He was heartened by Yuri’s conviction, even though he knew his friend was devastated. “I would never pity you, Yura.” 

“You’re the only one.” 

As Otabek changed into his sneakers and packed up his skates, Yuri stared at his phone, his face so tired. Otabek wondered if maybe Yuri wanted to skip the club and just returned to the hotel and watch movies. Maybe he needed to be alone. But he knew Yuri well enough now to let him take the lead at such moments. 

“Come here, Beka,” he said. “Instagram shot.” 

Otabek couldn’t help but smile as he scooted closer to Yuri on the bench. Yuri had many pictures of them together on his instagram, documenting their sightseeing experiences, their shared ice time in Hasetsu, even their coffees. It always sent the “angels” into hysterics. 

Now Yuri dropped one arm against Otabek’s shoulder as he often did, and touched his head against Otabek’s, which he only did when taking selfies. Otabek schooled his features into his standard look of neutrality, though it wasn’t easy with Yuri so close, the sweet smell of his hair a literal intoxicant. 

When Yuri started to pull away, Otabek clasped his elbow and held him still. He didn’t even know what he was doing, except that he had to keep Yuri close for a moment longer, inhabiting the silent understanding between them. 

“Hm, so now you’re manhandling me, too?” Yuri grumbled, but then he laid his head on Otabek’s shoulder and sighed. Otabek ran his fingertips up Yuri’s back and gently tugged on his braid. 

“Probably looks like shit now, doesn’t it,” Yuri mumbled. “Take it out, would you?” 

That was exactly what Otabek’s greedy fingers had hoped for. He’d discovered in Hasetsu that Yuri liked having his hair played with when Otabek’s headphone cord got tangled up in it. 

“Let me,” he’d said, when Yuri’s clawing only made it worse. Otabek hoped he hadn’t sounded too eager, but damn if he hadn’t longed to get his fingers in that hair for years. To make things worse, it was exactly as soft as it looked, and once he snaked the cord free, he smoothed the flaxen strands between his fingers most unnecessarily. 

“Nnn, keep doing that,” Yuri had said, smirking like a spoiled cat, and of course Otabek had obliged, even managing a dead-pan, “Is this sufficient?” 

“You know how to braid?” And that was how Otabek wound up doing Yuri’s hair in the Hasetsu coffee shop. 

Now Otabek found himself unwinding the translucent elastic from Yuri’s braid and slipping it onto his wrist. His traitorous (and filthy) mind likened the action to removing an article of clothing. For Yuri, this was close enough to the truth, as his hair was always styled just as intricately as his costumes. Otabek was careful as he reversed the braid (a dutch braid -- Yuri had explained the different styles). When he reached the crown of Yuri’s head, he exercised especial care, burying his fingers between the silky cords of hair and testing the tightness with gentle pressure before combing it free. 

Yuri sighed and tilted his head back and Otabek watched his face as he smoothed his fingers through his hair, wavy from the braid and magnificent. A small smile graced Yuri’s mouth and his eyes were reduced to slits of turquoise as Otabek stroked his hair from root to tip. At one point, Yuri seemed to shiver, the accompanying hum of pleasure more or less a confirmation. 

_Stop,_ Otabek ordered his gluttonous fingers. _If Yuri knew what this was doing to you, he would never let you near him again._

As if reading his thoughts, Yuri turned and aimed his half lidded eyes at Otabek. It was a look Otabek had never seen on his friend’s face before -- one that he could only categorize as yearning. Yuri licked his lips, and Otabek’s eyes were thus held captive. It would be so easy to close the distance between them and take that mouth -- 

Otabek stood up so abruptly, his water bottle flew off the bench. 

“We’d better get going,” he said, turning away, because Yuri was looking at him in confusion and something too much like hurt. “If you’re still up to it,” he added moronically. 

Yuri stamped to his feet. “Of course I am, don’t fucking coddle me, Altin.” He stormed past Otabek, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his beautiful hair slung over the other, and Otabek had to hold his eyes shut and breathe for a moment, because he hadn’t done much breathing in the past five minutes. Then he collected his belongings and followed the sounds of stomping feet to the parking lot. 

 

A few hours later, Otabek was setting up at the club, uneasiness sitting heavy in his chest as he stole glances at Yuri in the corner. He was predictably hunched over his phone, hooded sweater in its “do not disturb” position. Yuuri sat beside him, buffering him from Victor, who appeared to be holding court over the others, if his hand gestures were anything to judge. 

Otabek hadn’t spoken to Yuri since their weird moment in the locker room. He’d replayed the moment several times -- Yuri’s eyes, the flicker of his tongue, and then his reaction when Otabek stood up. He examined it through several lenses, and was ultimately torn between two. 

\- Cold blue rationality: Yuri had simply enjoyed the feeling of Otabek’s fingers in his hair, and his facial expressions had been nothing more than an ordinary reaction to pleasing physical stimulation. His startled response to Otabek’s sudden movement had been similarly normal. 

\- Dangerously simmering red: Yuri was aroused by the touch, and of course he was, it was intimate, and Otabek’s inappropriate thoughts all but flowed through his filthy fingers. 

\- More blue: But this didn’t mean that Yuri was attracted to Otabek. He was vulnerable; devastated by his performance and worried about his career, his judgment was compromised. And now he was at a club, where many predatory people would be more than willing to oblige Yuri’s recklessness. 

Otabek’s uneasiness grew. He trusted that Yuuri and Victor would keep Yuri safe, but it was easy to lose track of someone in a club. Otabek didn’t intend to let Yuri out of his sight, and in fact repositioned his table to face Yuri’s. 

The club was, frankly, a hole, but it had a great sound system. Otabek’s friend, Alex, had a band and would perform at the club on his days off. The sound system was the combined resources of his band mates. 

As Alex helped him set up, he noticed the trajectory of Otabek’s gaze. 

“You’re not nervous about them watching, are you?” Alex teased. He’d already been introduced to the skaters, and had gotten their autographs. He’d retired from competition himself a year earlier (after making the top five at nationals for the first time), but he was still a fanboy. 

“No,” Otabek answered simply. He hooked up his iPod to the amplifier and scrolled his list. The Yuri list. A thump of warning filled the hollow of his stomach. A cold blue thought announced, This plan is no longer advisable, abort the mission. 

No, he replied to himself, with equal coolness. 

“So Victor and Yuuri,” Alex said. “They’re really a thing?” 

“No,” Otabek said, and then realized that Alex meant Yuuri Katsuki, because obviously. 

“No?” Alex repeated in such dismay it would have been comical, if Otabek wasn’t in the middle of losing his mind. 

“Sorry, what was the question?” 

Alex laughed and held his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, I know you need to concentrate, I forgot. And, you don’t gossip. Fine.” 

Otabek glanced at him, hoping he conveyed enough disinterest to deter suspicion. 

“But,” Alex persisted, as Otabek clicked around his laptop, opening sound mixing programs, “Will you at least tell me the deal with Yuri Plisetsky?” Before Otabek could think up a benign inquiry or manage a blank stare, Alex continued. “At first, I thought it was just the fangirls being fangirls, making things up, reading too much into nothing, but you really are friends with him.” 

Otabek blinked at him, waiting. “Did you have a question or a point?” 

Alex’s face split into a grin. “Yeah, I was going to ask why you were friends with such a known asshole, but I just now remembered that you’re one, too.” 

Otabek let the amusement ghost his features for just a moment before returning to his set-up.

“Oh shit, and now he’s glaring at me,” Alex whispered. “What did I do?” 

Otabek looked over quickly, fast enough to see Yuri duck his head further under his hood. 

Probably wasn’t glaring at _you_ , Otabek thought. But he said, “You’re imagining things.” 

Alex scoffed. “That kid has the best death glare I’ve ever seen. My imagination isn’t that good.” His voice lowered. “I know he must be upset about his skate. But it wasn’t bad. He’s one of those skaters that can make mistakes and still you’d watch the performance over and over again because no one else can do what they just did.” He paused. “I mean, not that you’re not awesome, too. I’ll re-watch your skate just as many times.” 

“I would prefer you didn’t.” 

Alex laughed, but he was serious. He’d fallen on a triple flip, a stupid error. 

“But I agree,” Otabek went on. “About Yuri.” 

“Hmm, yeah, I have a feeling he’ll be fine,” Alex said. “A kid with a glare like that...he’s going to fight the puberty monster and win.” 

_Eyes of a soldier_ , Otabek silently agreed. 

“But seriously,” Alex said. “Is it true that Yuuri and Victor are engaged?” 

Otabek was finished setting up and scrolling through instagram on his laptop when Yuri walked over (giving Otabek enough time to close the browser, as he was currently staring at their earlier selfie posted on Yuri’s page with the caption, _Backstage with the real gold medal winner #otabek_altin._ )

“Next time,” Yuri began, by way of a greeting, “Victor is not invited.” He leaned against the table delicately -- really just the drop of his hip touching it -- and peered at Otabek from beneath his hood. Otabek wished he’d take it off.

“What about the others?” Otabek asked. 

Yuri scoffed, but was pensive. “Maybe Katsudon can come. Mostly just to irritate Victor. What is all this stuff, anyway?” He walked around the other side of the table, and Otabek followed, explaining the function of the equipment. At one point, he knelt on the floor to secure a cable, and Yuri joined him, shaking off his hood in the process. 

“How long have you known that Alex guy?” Yuri asked. His hair was in a messy ponytail, and so his eyes had nowhere to hide -- and Otabek was struck dumb by their unearthly teal sheen. 

“What?” 

“You heard me, that Alex guy,” Yuri said, and pink scuffed his cheeks. “How long have you been friends?” 

Otabek’s stomach dropped. Was Yuri about to express romantic interest in Alex? Alex was attractive -- dark blue eyes, North American boy-next-door features, meticulously styled dark hair. Gay, single, always looking. Admired Yuri. 

Suddenly (absurdly) Otabek had a vision of himself as best man at their wedding, and he could hardly breathe. 

“Six years,” Otabek replied mechanically. 

“Humph. He’s a weirdo. He had a picture of me and asked me to sign it.” 

Otabek’s devastation lifted from his chest a little. “Yes, I told him you would be here. He’s a fan, of all of you.” 

“Pathetic,” Yuri spat. He was silent for a beat. “So then is he also a fan of you?” Yuri was looking at him strangely, and before Otabek could be swallowed up by it, Alex was peering down at them from the other side of the table.

“Oh -- hey,” he said, eyes flickering between them. “Five minutes, Otabek. It’s getting pretty crowded out there!” He grinned and disappeared. 

Yuri scoffed. “‘Otabek.’”

Otabek couldn’t help but smirk. “That is my name.” 

“Whatever. I’m staying over here. Unless I’m not allowed, or something stupid like that.” He got up and leaned against the wall, right in the corner. Otabek was still smirking, though cold blue and shimmering red had collided head on in his chest.

“Get a chair, Yura,” he said, and his friend launched from the wall with a grin. Otabek watched as Yuri took the chair beside Yuuri and yowled something at Victor before returning grandly to Otabek’s side, dropping the chair and settling down cross legged. 

“Just shove me away if I’m too close,” Yuri said. 

_Never_ , Otabek thought. But then he wondered if Yuri was referring to the moment in the locker room. He glanced at his face and found only mischief, so he offered a standard hum in response. 

 

Otabek started his set with a few of his favorite mixes. Nothing charged with Yuri-significance, not yet. Yuri remained in the chair beside Otabek, watching Otabek’s hands as he added syncs and adjusted the tone and tempo. He sat tiny, still cross-legged, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his balled up hands. 

Then, the first Yuri-inspired song -- one he had picked out as a favorite in Hasetsu. Yuri let one leg dangle and began tapping his foot on the chair leg. Slowly, during the instrumental transitions, Otabek added the Agape mix -- just its soft undercurrent. 

Yuri sat up straighter, but said nothing, probably not convinced he was hearing correctly. Otabek remained carefully stoic, and faded the notes away. 

The next few songs were again neutral, with a hard beat for the dance floor. It was so crowded, a few dancers were within reach of Otabek’s table. Victor and Chris eventually jostled their way into the space in front of them. 

“Yurio!” Victor called. “Why are you hiding back there?” 

“Join us, Yurio,” Chris said. “You must check out this view.” He winked at Otabek, and Yuri wasted no time hurling invectives: “Fuck off, you geezers!”

Victor pouted but Chris just laughed and steered Victor away, wagging his ass. Otabek couldn’t begin to discern if such gyrations were intentional, or second nature. 

Yuri fairly roared in disgust, but said nothing. He sat up on his knees and muttered something about “useless Katsudon.” Yuuri was still at the table, talking to Phichit and a newly present Seung-Gil. 

The next track was a techno mix of Swan Lake. Yuri once said he wanted to use Swan Lake during his final competitive season. 

“Beka,” he said, the smile lilting his voice. Then something on the dance floor caught his attention, because he was sitting up on his knees again. Otabek followed the trajectory of his stare and saw Victor sailing across the floor in a stocking-footed imitation of a spread eagle. 

“I don’t fucking think so,” Yuri growled, and he was yanking off his shoes and scrambling onto the dance floor, saying, “I’ll be back as soon as I kick his ass!” 

Otabek watched, heartbeat accelerating, as Yuri threw his sweater at Yuuri and pirouetted directly in front of Victor. Otabek smothered a smirk. He had never seen such a wrathful ballerina. 

The dance floor cleared as Victor twizzled around Yuri in an impressive bit of impromptu footwork. The man tossed his silver hair dramatically as he executed a pretty good spin. At the same time, Yuri was flying around the dance floor, hitting the beats of the music with his own spontaneous footwork sequence, circular and full bodied. When he held his right leg parallel to his head and spun, people reacted with gasps and whistles. Not to be outdone, Victor leaped past him in a split jump, and then did something like an axel. 

Yuri’s expression was feral as he tore across the floor, launching himself into the air with incredible height and then further utilizing his flexibility with twirls in a Biellmann position. Victor was his jubilant contrast, radiating smiles in every direction. Otabek kept his eyes on Yuri, his throat burning from the mere proximity of such raw emotion. Because this was more than just outdoing Victor. Yuri didn’t flush or preen from the applause and cheers -- he scowled and pushed harder, as if to say, _This isn’t even once solitary percent of what I’m capable of, assholes._ He met even the smallest grain of dust with flames. All over again, Otabek ached to the core with how much he loved him. 

As the song thundered near its end, Otabek changed his playlist. He’d originally planned the next track for the end of his set, but the opportunity before him proved irresistible. 

He faded in the opening notes of Agape with the departing echoes of Swan Lake, and Yuri’s eyes found his in a look so piercing, Otabek’s knees might have weakened just a little. But then Yuri was melting into the opening choreography -- and so was Victor. 

Enthusiastic applause erupted at the skater’s table, and a cursory glance in its direction revealed that Phichit was recording the events. 

Yuri and Victor performed the entire program with surprising synchronicity, neither of them acknowledging the other -- indeed, they both seemed deep inside themselves, except for when Victor reached toward Katsuki a few times when he was nearest the table. 

Otabek hadn’t been prepared for this. For Yuri’s face, passionate in an entirely different way than before, and different, too, from any of his previous performances. Despite the fact that he obviously could not perform all of the elements off ice, there was more fullness to his movements, like every gesture, every flash of his eyes, was infused with one powerful feeling that hadn’t been there before. 

(Otabek forced down the indecent hope that this had anything to do with him.)

When Victor and Yuri finished their very impressive attempts at the final sit spin and Yuri slowly lifted his arms up and his head back for the ending pose, he looked straight at Otabek for a single beat and yet it had the potential to change everything. 

Otabek was so busy staring at the beautiful arch of Yuri’s body, that he almost missed the transition into the next song. He busied himself with his spinning, half watching as Victor spun Yuri in his arms and kissed both cheeks. 

“What fun!” the man cried, ignoring Yuri’s curses. “That was your best Agape yet, Yurio! I’m so proud.” Hearts were still flying from the man’s eyes as Yuri tore away from him and threatened bodily harm to Chris and Yuuri, who also wanted to cuddle him. 

“That was awesome!” Alex said, coming up beside Otabek. “Was that planned?” 

Otabek shook his head, no. “I should have anticipated it, though.” 

“Well, it was badass.” He laughed. “Look at those fans.” 

Indeed, several random people had surrounded Victor and Yuri. Victor, arm encircling Yuuri’s waist, was addressing them with obvious mirth. Yuri, teeth bared in a scowl, was pushing himself through the crowd that had reclaimed the dance floor. 

When someone, a rather large man, laid a hand on Yuri’s wrist, Otabek straightened with a flush of alarm. The man, all smarmy smiles, said something to Yuri that made him shrank back with both disgust and confusion. As he stalked away, the man watched him, obviously checking him out. 

“Damn, Otabek,” Alex muttered. “If looks could kill.” Otabek could feel his friend staring at him, and he refocused on his playlist, like he didn’t even need to acknowledge such a strange remark. Alex hummed, the sort of knowing hum that was a very bad sign indeed. 

“That was awesome, Yuri,” Alex said, as Yuri clamored into his chair beside Otabek. 

“Um...thanks,” Yuri replied, and Alex had the good sense not to expect further response and walked away -- but not before sneaking a pointed look at Otabek. 

“Beka, you are one sneaky bastard,” Yuri said. He had taken down his hair and was gathering it up into a fresh ponytail, so Otabek risked a sidelong glance. “All those hours in that cafe, sharing music, interrogating me. I should have known.” His voice dripped with false malice. In fact, his performance-high was palpable. Yuri’s purely happy energy was so rare, and so consuming, Otabek wished he could seal them together with some level of touch. Just his hand on top of Yuri’s...

“I thought you might appreciate it,” Otabek replied mildly. 

“Oh, did you? I would have just listened, but then Victor had to pull a Victor.” He paused, and his voice turned sharper, which signaled some level of uncertainty. “What about Agape? Was that planned, or just a fit of inspiration?” 

“I was going to play it later. But I wanted to see what you would do. I’m glad I did.” He spoke dispassionately enough, but it still felt too loaded, especially after that look Yuri had given him before his ending note. “What did that man say to you?” 

“Man? Oh.” Yuri barked a laugh. “That he really liked my ‘dancing’ and wanted to join me next time. Like that buffalo could move.” He leaned forward to squint at Otabek’s playlist. His exertion had set off the smell of his shampoo, and some other sweet musk that Otabek forced himself not to breathe in too deeply. 

“Any more surprises tonight, Altin?” 

“Isn’t the point not to tell?” Otabek replied, and Yuri smirked at him. Then he settled back in his chair, tapping the in-steps of his feet against the chair leg as the song surged through its ending notes. Otabek almost missed his cue, again. 

 

It was almost 2 a.m. when Otakek finished his set. As he put away his equipment, a yawning, but ‘not sleepy, shut up’ Yuri returned to the skater’s table. Otabek stole a few glances at him, watching as he laid his head on his wadded up sweater and played on his phone. Only Phichit and Seung-Gil were seated, the others idling nearby in various stages of sloppy intoxication. 

Otabek carried some of the equipment to the back room, which shared space with the food prep area. Alex was already back there, chatting with a coworker, but joined Otabek when he noticed him. 

“Hey! Great set tonight. Everyone loved it.” Alex had always been the persistently positive type, so Otabek accepted his praise with a nod. “So, you’re headed back to Almaty after the exhibitions tomorrow?” 

“I’m staying one more night,” Otabek said. “I promised Mikhal.” Mikhal was his old coach from his Canada days, and Alex’s former coach as well. 

“Cool,” Alex said, and then, way too casually, “Is Yuri staying, too?” 

Otabek hesitated, and then scolded himself for hesitating, because it made him seem guilty of something -- and thus he hesitated longer. “Yes.” 

Alex hummed and leaned against the wall. “Anything you want to tell me?” He spoke kindly, and Otabek knew he meant well. Alex had tried so hard to be his friend when they were rink mates in Canada, and indeed Otabek had confided in him about the hockey player. But then he’d put a distance between himself and Alex, first with silent hostility and then with hundreds of miles of ocean when he returned to Almaty. And still, Alex continued to offer his friendship, via social media and texts. He was not easily offended or easily deterred, and thus he was one of the few people who had managed to become Otabek’s friend. 

But still, he said, “No.” 

Alex sighed. “Well, then do you mind if I tell you something?” 

“I think you will tell me either way.” He always did. 

“You’re in love with that boy.” 

Otabek’s stomach turned cold, but he continued to calmly wrap up the amplifier cord. “We are friends, nothing more.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t say you weren’t.” He waited, for what, Otabek could only guess. Denial? He wouldn’t deny that he loved Yuri. He couldn’t. Even imagining himself speaking such a lie filled his mouth with a bitter taste. But he wouldn’t confirm it, either, because the feelings were his. They belonged wholly to him; Yuri did not. He would not share what little he had in his hands. 

“Okay,” Alex said. “Let’s try this. He’s in love with you, too.” 

Otabek breathed in deeply and held it there, like a flame in his chest. Alex meant no harm. He knew nothing. He didn’t know the situation, and he didn’t know Yuri. 

“This conversation is over,” Otabek said, getting up to collect more equipment. Alex sighed and followed him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, kneeling beside him to help unhook some cables. “I know how private you are. I know that bringing this up is officially a shitty thing to do. But I also know that you are probably torturing yourself right now, so I had to give you my unsolicited observations. If you ever want to talk about it, hit me up.” He clapped Otabek on the shoulder and stood, hauling a speaker with him. 

Otabek shifted enough so that the table no longer blocked his vision and lifted his eyes to Yuri. Blond hair was spilled across the table where Yuri laid dozing, his arms folded around his sweater-pillow. 

_He is in love with you, too._

For a moment, Otabek allowed himself to believe this, let his body fill with the exquisite light of Yuri loving him. 

He turned away, reality stealing him back in a flood of shame. If Yuri did love him, it wasn’t real. Yuri was still only sixteen. He’d get over it. Otabek wouldn’t take anything from him that he might one day regret.

Beneath his chivalry, however, loomed a more selfish truth: he would not risk losing Yuri’s friendship. Not by starting a romance that Yuri wasn’t ready for, or by risking Yuri’s rejection. (He had to admit, to his great shame, that the latter possibility stung worse.) 

As he stood, he looked towards Yuri again, like a reflex, and froze. Hovering over Yuri, in a large wall of muscle, was the man from earlier. 

Otabek moved at once, accruing information in a blur: the man’s fat hand was planted beside Yuri’s face, and he was leaning far over him, like he was trying to whisper something in his ear. 

“Back away from him,” Otabek said, and when the man only looked up, clearly alarmed by Otabek’s sudden presence, but not alarmed enough to actually get out of Yuri’s space, Otabek surged forward, grabbing his arm. 

“The fuck are you doing?” the man sputtered, pushing back, but Otabek had his arm in a specific grip, his fingers locked on pressure points. 

“Don’t move,” he warned, hauling the man against the wall. “I will break your arm.” His voice was slightly distorted to his own ears, and so calm. The man just gaped at him, with fear but mostly mystification. Up close, he wasn’t quite the middle aged pervert Otabek had assumed, but someone maybe in his mid-twenties. Possibly perverted, but mostly just drunk. 

“Hey, I was just leaving my number,” the man said. “I’m guessing you’re his boyfriend? Sorry, alright? I’m leaving.” 

“He’s only sixteen,” Otabek said, releasing him and pushing him off the wall. 

“I didn’t know! He shouldn’t even be in here, then.” Otabek’s anger pulsed anew in his chest, but the man had already taken off. 

Still in a haze of anger, Otabek looked around, anticipating shocked faces and a barrage of questions, but his group of peers were on the other side of the club, talking and laughing. He braved a glance at the door to the back room, certain that Alex would be standing there with a smug look on his face; but it was clear. A few chairs down, Yuri remained fast asleep. 

Relief landed soft in Otabek’s chest, but then he turned to his left -- a blind spot -- and saw Seung-Gil standing there, his expressionless face somehow more condemning than any scandalized look could be. The man raised his considerable eyebrows and walked away, unhurriedly, towards the group. Otabek felt a thrill of horror, but it plummeted just as quickly. Seung-Gil wouldn’t say anything. The relief was small, however, because the silence meant complicity. He’d seen Otabek laid bare; his experience as a witness meant he owned a small piece of Otabek’s secret. He probably didn’t care. (That somehow didn’t help.) Otabek considered taking him aside and explaining, but the idea retracted with a decisive, _No_. Seung-Gil had chosen to walk away, and Otabek would do the same. 

As Otabek shut down his laptop and stuffed his equipment into his backpack, he took many deep, meditative breaths. But the adrenaline was slow to fade. He wanted to find the man and brutalize him for even thinking he could touch Yuri. And a part of him hoped he would lose the fight and be duly punished for desiring the same thing. 

Was he really much different from that man? Otabek himself had admired Yuri from afar and then made a move. He offered friendship, but had always harbored something more. Was he really the noble one simply because he had not acted on his feelings? Precious little separated him from the sort of sleazy character who saw something pretty and tried to take it. 

He looked up to see Yuri approach. He yawned mightily and leaned against the table. 

“I’m riding back to the hotel with you,” he said. “If I have to share a cab with any of those drunken idiots, I’ll do something that they all will regret.” 

“I took my bike,” Otabek said. “If you’re very tired, it might be safer to--”

“No,” Yuri shot. “It’s 23 degrees out there. I’ll be wide awake the second we step outside, and by the way, not even a dimwit like JJ would fall asleep on a fucking motorcycle, give me some credit.” 

Otabek felt himself relaxing into amusement. The familiarity of Yuri’s rage, the falseness of it, tugged so precisely at his heart. Or maybe he was dying. That would probably be easier. 

“Okay, I’ll get my coat.” Otabek went to the back room again, and retrieved his coat and helmet from an extra locker. He saw Alex in the kitchen area, stacking glasses by the sink and laughing with another coworker. Guilt and obligation burned low in his stomach. He approached Alex. 

“I’m heading out,” he said. “Thanks again, for setting this up.” 

“No problem,” Alex said, with his genuine warmth. “Keep in touch, okay?” 

Otabek nodded and held his hand up in farewell. 

Yuri was standing by the table, on his phone.

“Where is your coat?” Otabek asked. 

“I didn’t bring one,” Yuri replied, glare sharpening. “Don’t start, it’s only a five minute trip to the hotel, it’s just as cold on the ice.” 

That was some bullshit, but Otabek knew better than to argue. He also knew that, despite Yuri’s bravado and his frequent citations of his Russian imperviousness to cold, he wore sweaters on 70 degree days and always packed a leopard print heated throw. 

“We’re trading,” Otabek said, shrugging off his heavy leather jacked. When Yuri twisted his face in an obvious prelude to refusal, Otabek wagged his fingers in a hand-it-over gesture.

Yuri pulled off his sweater with a slew of grumbles, eyeballing Otabek’s black t-shirt like he was going to comment on its sparseness, but Yuri’s own black t-shirt was even less substantial. The jacket was big on Yuri and thus adorable, especially with how he crossed his arms in a sulk. Meanwhile, Yuri’s sweater was tight on Otabek’s arms and chest, but it was long enough. He pulled the hood over his head, and the sweet shampoo smell spilled down.

They bid the others goodnight with blessedly little trouble. (Or, more accurately, Otabek politely thanked them for coming, and Yuri angrily shut down attempts at drunken goodbye speeches.) 

When they got outside, the wind hit Otabek like a gust of frosted glass. He hadn’t been prepared for the wind chill, but as he mounted his bike and struggled not to let his shivering show, he was doubly grateful that he had made Yuri switch coats. 

“Here,” he said, handing Yuri his helmet. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Yuri said, shoving it onto his head. “You’re going to pay for all of this, Beka.” 

Otabek actually huffed a laugh at that, but then Yuri was clamoring onto the bike behind him, wrapping his arms tight around his waist and pushing his body flush against Otabek’s back. 

“There, now you’re wearing your coat, too,” Yuri said smugly, mere inches from his ear, and Otabek’s eyes fluttered. He had never wanted to kiss Yuri more than at that moment; the desire beat in his chest so hard, it hurt. It really fucking hurt. 

He turned the ignition and revved the engine, the roar of it beneath his body anchoring him back into some semblance of control. 

“Hold on, Yura,” he said. 

“Mmm hmm,” Yuri hummed, clutching tighter, and Otabek took off, permitting the happiness to flood his veins. It was the most he could hope for, and he would take it, every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this chapter up yesterday, but I ran out of time. I had to watch skating, you see! Does anyone else watch skating? I decided to watch YOI after a friend of mine recommended it, based on my love of skating. (I myself cannot skate. I tried once as a tween and promptly broke my wrist.)


	4. The wrong side of the glass wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Otabek is critically injured in a motorcycle accident, Yuri is forced to confront all of his feelings about his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we meet Otabek's parents and Yuri's tears. I did some rudimentary research on head injuries, but I'm no doctor, so if you are one, please suspend your disbelief. 
> 
> On a lighter note...can you guess Yuri's SP music based on the description?!

“Get off the ice, assholes! It’s my turn!” Victor and Katsudon stared at him, their eyes owlish, Yuuri’s leg still held in the camel position, and Victor’s hand still on his back (or ass, more likely, Yuri didn’t want to know.) 

“Is that your short program costume, Yurio?” Katsudon asked, he and Victor drifting over to him like slack-jawed idiots. Yuri curled his mouth into a scowl and waited by the exit for them to cross paths. He wanted to get the interaction over with, but he also wanted to tower over Katsudon for a minute. It was one of the few benefits of his new height that he didn’t have to work for. 

(He was still a few inches shorter than Victor, and he hoped it stayed that way. Frankly, he would have been happy to remain 5’4’’ for the rest of his life. It was a good height for a skater.) 

“No, pig,” Yuri replied, as they clamored onto the carpet. “I just felt like dressing up.” 

“Still so rude,” Victor sang. “Either Yurio’s not done with puberty, or his personality is just stuck like that. Shame either way.” 

Yuri was about to hurl some trusty insult about Victor’s hair, or his age, or his stupid face, but then Katsudon leaned close to squint at Yuri’s shoulder and arm. 

“What is your costume made out of?” he asked. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so he probably thought that the imitation armor was cement or something. 

“How should I know.” He stepped onto the ice slowly, glaring down at Yuuri just so, but the idiot just smiled at him like they were sharing a companionable moment. 

Yuri glided across the ice, doing a few laps, noting how the wind he generated felt against his body with the unique weight of his costume. In truth, he was very excited about the costume, and his program. He was skating to a track from some TV show he’d never watched. He’d never skated competitively to contemporary music before, but Mila had played a bunch of random stuff during an early summer practice, and this track was among them. The music had apparently played during a scene of slaughter -- a scene of revenge. Violins began in a dirge-like melody, and then drums, the tempo increasing, intensifying. 

Redemption was Yuri’s official theme, the one known to the public, but in his own mind, the theme was revenge. Revenge against every mindless, fickle fuck that had dismissed him as just another flash-in-the-pan teen skater, whose career had predictably tanked after puberty hit. (Though some commentators used their arm-chair psychology degrees to diagnose him as a head case; unable to sustain the pressure of his success, which was complete horseshit.) 

Yuri pumped his legs harder, and lined up a double axel. He hit it easily, holding the edge upon landing, savoring the delicious stability of his body. The longer legs, longer arms, longer midsection, all re-calibrated to his center of gravity. The weight of his limbs felt familiar now, after months of rigorous training. He hadn’t taken much of a break, but as a compromise, he’d focused stringently on the basics. Yakov had demanded as much, relying on the same battle plan he’d used on other skaters post-growth spurt. Yuri had to admit it worked well (though he would never admit it out loud.) 

“Yuratchka!” Yakov bellowed. “It’s time for the run-through. Only triples for now!” 

Yuri rolled his eyes but shouted an affirmative all the same. He waited in the opening pose (head bowed to the right, one gloved hand concealing his face.) Then, the music began, the stringed notes long and mournful. His footwork matched the pace, and he summoned his character: an assassin stalking his enemies. They didn’t notice him, didn’t consider him a threat. The music picked up, and on the beat of the first drum, he landed a quad toe. 

“Yuratchka!” Yakov howled, but Yuri ignored him as always, exalting in how awesome the jump felt. For months he’d struggled, his gangly limbs refusing to assist in the rotation of his jumps. It got so bad, he could barely land triples. Then, it got worse. He began having panic attacks. He struggled to keep food down, and dropped ten pounds. Two weeks before the Olympics, Otabek skyped him at their usual time, and humiliatingly, Yuri broke down in tears. He’d even choked out his darkest fear -- that without skating, he was worthless. 

“Skating isn’t what makes you special, Yura,” Otabek had said. “You make the skating special. You give it worth. Yura? Look at me.” When Yuri did, Otabek’s face bordered on fury. “You are more than your skating.” 

“Yeah, what the fuck am I?” 

Otabek was silent for a beat, and Yuri wanted to take back the question -- it was needy and unfair. But then Otabek said, “You are strong. You are fearless. You are the most passionate person I have ever known. When you’re skating, or when you’re sitting there in your kitchen merely existing, it’s the same. There’s no looking away from you, Yura.” 

Yuri scoffed, blushing on top of his awful cry face. Otabek’s words filled him with an entirely pointless hope. “I wish you would look away now.” 

“Yura. You are my best friend. I would never feel compelled to look away from you, especially when you were in pain. Just as you have never looked away from me.” 

It was an absurd comparison, since Otabek had never broken down crying in front of Yuri or anyone. Yuri couldn’t even imagine him crying as a baby. He probably emerged from the womb calmly, and just gave the doctors and his parents a bored look. 

To his credit, Yuri didn’t cry in front of him again, not even after he fell twice at the Olympics and finished in seventh place. It helped that Otabek won bronze (and that the geezers finished one and two.) It helped even more that JJ bombed. Still, Yuri felt depleted to the point of nothingness. He left the celebrations early, and Otabek insisted on joining him in the hotel room they shared. It had two queen beds, but Yuri fell asleep in Otabek’s, his head on Otabek’s chest. He’d been playing with Yuri’s hair while they watched Captian America: Civil War.

When Yuri woke up in the middle of the night, he’d found himself flush against Otabek’s body, very much the small spoon. Beka’s face was pressed into Yuri’s back, and Yuri could feel him breathe in warm puffs of slumbering air. 

In his half-sleep state, everything lavender hued and surreal, he’d felt only a warm rush of contentment. He’d wrapped his fingers over Otabek’s hands and fallen back asleep. 

In the morning, Yuri woke up alone, the sound of the shower running signalling Otabek’s location. Yuri never mentioned the spooning, and of course, neither did Otabek. He probably hadn’t even known it had happened, but Yuri could summon the experience whenever he pleased -- and he pleased very often. 

_What did it mean_ , he begged of himself, his heart aching, and he kicked the thought away -- literally kicked, it was in the choreography. 

Yuri dug his concentration back into his practice. The tempo of the music increased, and he threw his body into the sinuous footwork, his hair streaking his vision blond. He closed his fist over an imaginary blade, because he was coming for everyone who had forgotten him. 

His next jump was a triple axel, and he hit it without a flaw, his landing foot holding the edge so strong, he transitioned into a sit spin without any other connecting movements. 

The intensity of the music was building now, and his footwork grew bigger, more circular. At one high arching note, he set up the quad loop and landed it cleanly. Someone was cheering, probably Victor or the pig.

“Don’t encourage him!” Yakov yelled. Yuri was on his final combination spin now, and his chest was swelling because this was the best run through of a program he had done in a year. 

At the ending pose, his knees bent, his back arched to the bright lights, his rink mates were applauding. 

He got up, panting, and drifted across the ice to cool down. 

“Yuratchka!” Yakov yelled, and Yuri headed towards him, tuning out his complaints. He respected his coach (he actually did), but Yakov was wrong this time. Yuri didn’t need to start his season conservatively. He’d worked hard to learn how to jump again, and he wasn’t going to be cautious when he was ready and able to fight. He gulped from his water bottle and stared at Yakov until the man went silent and scowling. 

“Go to Lilia, she can deal with you,” Yakov said. “Victor. Victor!” Yakov mumbled curses and stomped away in search of the dumbass, who was probably off groping his pig someplace. (Yuri was a little miffed that the two idiots weren’t rushing the ice to praise him.) 

Mila, however, was lounging in the front row, smiling at Yuri like he was an adorably drawn cartoon animal. 

“What’s your problem, hag?!” 

“Nothing. It’s just that my little Yuratchka is all grown up.” She stood and strolled up to him, thumbing her chin. “Hrm, you’re too tall now to pet, but I bet I can still lift you.” 

“Stay away from me, hag!” He darted away, and luckily, she just laughed at him and flopped back in her chair. It was her day off, and yet she chose to creepily watch them practice, the stalker. 

Yuri went to the locker room to change for ballet. He had a half hour, so after switching his costume for leggings and a t-shirt, he laid on a bench and scrolled through his social media feeds. 

On instagram, Victor had just posted a photo of Yuuri stretching beside a large sunlit window. It was captioned, _My sunshine. #Victuuri #fiance #love_

“Ugh, GROSS!” Yuri exclaimed, though he felt an even grosser wave of envy. Refusing to examine the emotion, he moved on to his facebook feed, which was, as always, full of mundane garbage. Then, the “new post” alert appeared, and he clicked on it. 

A news story, a headline, and he shot up so fast, he almost fell off the bench. 

_Kazakh skater, Otabek Altin, critically injured in a motorcycle accident._

Yuri clicked the story, struggling to grasp the words with his vision tunneling. 

_“Emergency responders were called to the scene of a collision between a truck and a motorcycle on a busy Almaty motorway. The pick-up truck driver sustained only mild injuries and was treated at the scene. The motorcyclist, Otabek Altin, was expedited to the hospital. He is said to be in critical condition. Story developing.”_

“Fuck, fuck,” Yuri hissed as he managed to click Otabek’s contact on his phone. It rang, and Yuri paced. “Please pick up, come on, Beka.” He stamped his feet as he walked, for he could hardly feel them, they were so cold. “Come on, Beka...” The story had to be a mistake, or some awful joke. 

The ringing stopped, and Yuri’s breath caught. “This is Otabek Altin,” Otabek’s stern voice-mail voice intoned. 

“Fuck!” Yuri yelled, squeezing his phone in his hand and almost throwing it, but he stopped himself. At the beep, he said, “Beka, it’s Yuri. Call me right away so that I know you’re alright.” He ended the call and then stared at his phone, willing it to ring. 

“Yuri?” It was Katsudon, peeking his head into the locker room. “Are you alright?” 

“No!” Yuri screamed. He raked his hands through his hair. “Get out of here!” Yuuri, of course, only rushed to his side. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oh my God!” Mila’s voice, and her running feet. “Yuri, have you seen...?” She burst into the locker room, brandishing her phone, but she pulled it to her chest at the sight of them. 

“I read it, hag, get out, get out both of you, he’s going to call me any second!” 

“What happened?” Katsudon asked, and Mila handed him her phone. Yuri turned away, but he could practically feel Yuuri’s dark reaction. The Katsudon always took up so much space with his emotions, and Yuri couldn’t stand it, not now. 

He went into the bathroom and locked himself in a stall. Sagging against the cold walls, he went to Otabek’s facebook fan page. The story was there, and a slew of comments, but nothing more official. Then, heart racing faster, he clicked on Mehli Altin’s page. They were “friends,” but she didn’t post often. He always liked her cat memes and videos, though. 

There was nothing on her page about the accident, which Yuri knew was a bad sign. If the story were wrong, she’d be quick to say so. If it were true, she’d be too frantic to bother with her stupid facebook. 

He sent her a message, anyway: _Is Otabek okay?_

He dropped his head back and rubbed his sweaty palm on his knee. Adrenaline coiled low and ominous in his belly and he turned, shoving his forehead into the wall, bracing his body with his palms. 

He breathed in deep and held it for five counts, like he’d been taught, but the panic was gaining traction; he felt it in the veins of his wrists, his fingers. 

He dropped to the floor and curled forward, his breath stuttering. Then came the chime of a notification and he scrambled to read it. 

A reply from Mehli. Everything stopped as he read it. 

_He is badly hurt. Head injury, blood loss, maybe more. He’s in surgery now. I’m getting on a plane, but it’s a 20 hour flight. I will keep you posted. If you pray, please pray for him now._

Yuri’s breath cut off with a gasp. It was real. He grabbed the underside of the door with one hand, and dug his nails into his other hand, but he was hyper ventilating. 

“Yuri?” It was Katsuki, standing outside his stall. “Yuri, please come out. Let me help.” 

_You can’t_ , Yuri screamed, but only puffs of air came out. _Go away_ , he wheezed, with no sound. 

Katsuki hissed something in Japanese and suddenly the motherfucker was sliding under the door. Yuri pushed uselessly at his shoulders; his vision was going white. 

“Yuri, Yuri, look at me.” His voice was commanding. Yuri squinted up at him, his balance easier with Yuuri holding him by the shoulders. “Breathe like me, Yuri. Like this.” He breathed in deep through his nose, and Yuri struggled to mimic it, the breadth of air in his lungs so shallow. But a spark went off in his mind at the idea of the Katsudon outdoing him in breathing. He grabbed Yuuri’s forearms and focused on the man’s large, serious eyes (his competition eyes, actually) and fought hard to breathe the superior breaths until he was suddenly able to draw air fully. 

“Good, Yuri,” Yuuri said, his eyes turning kind. “Just keep breathing like that.” 

Yuri jerked back and leaned against the corner of the stall. His legs were long, alien things in front of him, crumpled because the pig was there, hogging up space. Yuri probably had the strength now to shove the man out of the stall, but he didn’t even try. 

He glanced at his phone, laying about a foot away, and his stomach lurched. He grabbed it and scrambled to his feet. 

“Slow down, Yuri,” Katsudon pleaded, but Yuri burst from the stall and out of the bathroom. Mila was standing in the locker room, now accompanied by Victor and Yakov. 

“Everyone just stay out of my way,” he said. His voice was raw, more scared than scary. He shoved on his shoes, hiding behind the fall of his hair. 

“Yuri, you shouldn’t go alone,” Katsudon said, still the irritatingly reasonable voice, following him. 

“Go where?” Yakov asked. 

“To Otabek,” Victor replied. 

“To Kazakhstan? Absolutely not!” 

Yuri gritted his teeth and ignored him. As it was, anger flooded his veins where the panic had just been, and he almost hoped someone tried to stop him. 

“Yurio is already gone,” Victor said quietly, but even his quiet voice was loud. “In every way that matters, he is in Kazakhstan already. Don’t get in his way, Yakov, and don’t worry. Yuuri and I will go with him.” 

“No!” Yuri and Yakov barked as one. 

“He is not going alone, and my Yuuri and I will not be parted, so, let’s stop debating and just go to the airport now.” 

Yuri hauled his backpack over his shoulders and took off. He was too far gone to care what anyone else did. He was going to Almaty. As he walked, he typed a response to Mehli: _I’m getting on a plane, too._

He shoved his phone into the pocket of his sweater and pulled the hood over his head. It wasn’t until he reached the parking lot that he remembered he didn’t have a car (he lived within walking distance of the rink) and though a cab would do, Victor’s shiny black jaguar was even better. 

The others were quickly behind him, in a throng of noise. 

“Now Mila, please refer to Makkachin’s care list,” Victor was saying. “A laminated copy is on the fridge.” The car’s security beeped twice and Yuri headed fast for the back door. 

“Yuri, wait,” Mila said, and ambushed him with a hug. “I would go if I didn’t have the Nebelhorn Trophy this week. Just...take care of yourself, Yuri. Let the boys be nice to you.” 

He allowed her to hug him a second longer and then squirmed out of her embrace. “Knock it off,” he grumbled, but when she squeezed his hand, he squeezed back. 

“Yuratchka,” Yakov said. He sounded resigned. “Call me tonight. And when you find out that the Altin boy is alright, come home.” 

Yuri just nodded and got into the car. He was mortified that Yakov would pat his shoulder (or worse) and he would definitely break down. 

Victor and Yuuri were already buckled in, the latter talking to someone on the phone. “That one leaves in an hour?” he said. “All right. Thank you. Goodbye.” 

Yuri tuned out the ensuing conversation and checked his phone again. He had a response from Mehli: _Good. I’ll tell my mother you are coming. They are at Almaty Memorial, in the trauma wing. My parents will know you when they see you. My mother is a fan. Please message me any updates, and tell me nothing but the truth._

_I will_ , he messaged back. A sort of cold haze had settled over him, mind and body. It wasn’t calm; it was probably the opposite, but at least he wasn’t struggling to breathe anymore. 

He stared out the window, pushing his forehead against the sun warmed glass. The love birds were conversing softly in Japanese, obviously talking about him, but he could hardly care. As long as they got him to the airport. He sighed. Feeling pulsed in fragments as he stared at the traffic and landmarks of Saint Petersburg. Against the torrent of thoughts in his head, he forced one to the surface again and again: Get to Beka. He would never need anything else again. 

 

When they got to the airport, Victor took charge, even paying for the tickets. Somewhere in the thunder storm of his emotions, Yuri felt guilty. The tickets weren’t cheap, and Yuri had money of his own (he was, after all, a trust fund brat.) He didn’t need Victor’s help, and he didn’t need something else to feel bad about. 

This train of thought reminded him that he had dinner plans with his grandfather. There were a few minutes left before boarding, so he said he was going to the bathroom, and actually went outside. 

Nicolai picked up on the first ring. “Hello?” The familiar tenor of his voice broke the fragile shell of Yuri’s emotional armor. 

“Hello grandpa.” 

“Yura? What is it, what has happened?” Yuri heard the creak of the kitchen floor, and pictured his grandfather standing there, ready to run straight through traffic to take care of Yuri. 

“I’m fine,” he said, though he was weeping now, the tears literally dripping off his cheeks, though his voice remained tight with some semblance of control. “It’s...Beka. He’s been in an accident, so I’m going to Almaty.” 

Nicolai was silent for a beat. “An accident. What sort of accident?” 

“Motorcycle. A bad one. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His voice came out in a monotone, like there was nothing of him left. 

“Yuratchka, I will come with you. Please wait.” 

Fuck. Now Yuri really lost it; big sobs shook his chest. He wrapped his arm over his face to muffle the humiliating sounds. 

“Yura?” his grandfather said. “Yuratchka, where are you?” 

Yuri breathed in, the sound a shuddering hiss. “At the airport,” he rasped. “Grandpa, don’t worry about me, stupid Victor and Katsuki already decided to come with me.” 

“Good. Yes, that is good. Yura, your Otabek is a strong young man. I think it is good that you are going to see him. He will be glad to see a friend.”

_Unless he never wakes up_. Yuri covered his mouth, more tears spilling onto his cheeks. He was struck by the desperate urge to beg his grandfather for reassurance. The man always had the magic quality of constructing Yuri’s reality with his words. If he promised Yuri that Otabek would be alright, then it would be the truth. 

But his grandfather would not lie to him; he would not make promises he could not actually deliver. And Yuri would not pain his grandfather now by asking for comfort that he could not give. 

“Thank you, grandpa. I will call you tonight.” 

“I will be waiting. At any time, Yura, do not hesitate.” 

Yuri had to swallow down another sob. “Goodbye, grandpa.” 

After getting off the phone, he leaned against the wall and fought furiously against the tears that had his body under attack. He glared at anyone who looked at him. He bounced his head against the wall, ordering himself to calm down. When his breathing finally steadied, he put on his sunglasses, pulled his hood up, and headed back inside. 

 

Not soon enough, Yuri was on the plane in a window seat, the Katsudon on his left, and Victor in the aisle seat. The pair had fussed over him upon boarding, making sure he got his preferred seat, that he had his pillow, his iPod, that he was comfortable. He responded with minimal hostility, too busy with real problems to manage anything else, and annoyingly, Mila’s words of advice had somehow taken residence in his mind. 

He checked his phone constantly, refreshing the article about Beka’s accident for any updates, his heart stalling every time the headline re-loaded, his imagination all too easily supplying the edit: _Figure skater Otabek Altin dies following motorcycle accident._ But every word in the article remained the same, and his heart resumed beating. 

He had his iPod on shuffle, the volume loud, shutting out the ambient noise. Song after song was a Beka song -- something he had sent Yuri, or played in a set, or simply reminded Yuri of him. Yuri had to skip over these, the melodies filling his chest like water, too much, suddenly, like eulogies. 

Then, the Swan remix began. Yuri let it play, remembering, as he always did, that night at the club only six months earlier. Otabek’s sneaky playlist, Yuri’s spontaneous performance with Victor. After bombing the GPF, one of the worst nights of his life became one of the best. 

He’d tried not to analyze it too closely, refusing to even give “it” a name. But that didn’t stop the thing from growing, exponentially every time Otabek looked at him a certain way, or at all. And when Yuri found himself jerking off with his face buried in the sweater that Otabek had worn that night, and still smelled like him...Yuri had to admit that he liked Otabek as more than a friend. 

Fucking duh. 

Acknowledging this truth changed the filter of his life. Like he was literally inhabiting some instagram tinted nightmare, where everything Otabek said or did existed in shadow of Yuri’s bitter hope. Because he already knew that Otabek did not like him romantically. After the GPF, when he’d taken out Yuri’s braid and touched him like it was something more, he’d jumped a mile when Yuri had turned to him and barely let the ghost of his feelings touch his eyes. 

Yuri had concluded, more than once, that to Otabek, he was a little brother. Someone he rescued from deranged fangirls, comforted in times of distress, hung out with for the sheer amusement. He catered to Yuri because he was kind; he possibly even loved Yuri, but it was platonic; familial. In fact, Otabek was probably straight. 

Still, Yuri had continued to hope, had googled “how to tell if someone likes you” maybe one hundred times, and had once been perilously close to asking the Katsudon for advice. 

Of course, that was back when he thought he had all the time in the world. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face and skipped the song, settling on some meaningless electronic shit. But nothing was getting Otabek off his mind, and memories surged forward with new urgency. 

The day after the GPF, Otabek and Yuri spent hours together, visiting landmarks in Vancouver, BC, exploring shops, and hiking a few trails. 

At one point, they’d stopped at an overlook for some waterfalls, where Yuri took a few selfies and then summoned Otabek into the frame. 

He’d had the overwhelming desire to kiss his friend’s cheek and wink for the camera, but of course he did not. But Otabek had placed his hand on the small of Yuri’s back just so, and Yuri lit up from the contact. He’d literally felt heat flow from the simple touch and warm him to the core, sort of like the euphoric calm from a sedative, but better. And the effect was in his eyes, like the light had gathered more densely in the greenest places. Yuri looked at the picture often, not least of all because of Otabek’s own expression. The soft upward turn of his mouth, the directness of his gaze. And fuck, his eyes...more richly brown than Yuri had ever seen them, the prisms of water-light setting them aglow. 

Otabek was of course known for his stoicism, his coldness, but one look at that picture, and Yuri’s entire body blossomed with warmth. It didn’t seem possible that anyone could look so tender when touching Yuri; and it was perverse that Yuri was electrified by such a sweet expression. All of the basic bitches of the world could have the sleazy eros of Chris, and the manicured prettiness of Victor, and all other forms of conventional sexiness. Yuri would take the heart squeezing kindness in his friend’s eyes. It had him already, whether Otabek meant it to or not, whether he was ever able or willing to surrender anything more concrete to his lovesick friend. It didn’t matter. 

I don’t care if he never wants me, Yuri often told himself. As long as he’s in my life, I will consider myself lucky. I will take whatever I can get. 

Of course, this was bullshit. Yuri’s greedy heart would not allow him to remain reasonable much longer. Inevitably, he would blurt out some confession, or brand Otabek’s face with kisses, and the shit would be all over the fan. If Otabek was the straight and/or unrequited victim as Yuri suspected, their friendship might not survive such a strain. Just the thought of losing Otabek’s friendship lurched him to the edge of panic. 

How selfish he had been. Losing Otabek’s friendship would be one of the biggest tragedies of Yuri’s pathetic life, but it Otabek were to...

He couldn’t even think it. 

Otabek had to live. The world needed him. If it wasn’t going to be Yuri, some other person would be cheated of a wonderful partner. More people needed to feel the rare warmth of Otabek’s gaze, and experience his music, and his fucking skating...a whole nation depended on that. And Otabek deserved to be happy, to live decades more in the lakeside home he said he wanted, with a great dane and a wrap-around porch. Not many people knew that he loved waking up at dawn to gather strength from the silence. How he took pleasure in washing dishes immediately after each use. He loved empty spaces; he opened and archived every email so that his inbox remained empty. His table was always clear and open. He collected bears, but he also loved blue sea-stones and would press leaves and petals into books to save his spot. And he read voraciously, everything from stuffy classics to popular YA, poetry and history and scientific tomes. The last time they’d skyped, Yuri had teased him about the bright pink best seller sitting on the counter behind him, a cherry blossom poking out of it. 

Yuri imagined that book sitting somewhere in Otabek’s apartment, unfinished, the cherry blossom marking the end of Otabek’s life. 

Yuri started shaking from his efforts not to cry. He dug his nails into his palms and turned more determinedly toward the window, but his movement only alerted the Katsudon faster. 

“Yuri,” the pig said -- cooed -- and placed his palm on Yuri’s upper back, rubbing. 

He shook Yuuri off, but in the process let out a humiliating gasp of air that made it all too obvious that he was crying. 

“Oh, Yuri,” the Katsudon said, with such sincere kindness, Yuri shoved himself against the window in a feeble attempt at distance. “It’s alright.” 

“Leave me alone,” Yuri said, with a staccato intake of breath, his tears so abundant now, his nose was clogged. 

“No,” Yuuri said, with the same conviction he’d used earlier on the bathroom floor. He clasped Yuri’s shoulders, his thumbs circling. “Maybe that is what you want, but in case it isn’t, we’re not going anywhere. You’re not going through this alone.” He rubbed Yuri’s shoulders a moment longer, and Yuri had to admit, the effect was not unpleasant. He felt a little safer, more anchored to the security of the present moment. So when Yuuri started to pull away, Yuri grabbed his wrist.

The Katsudon obliged, rubbing Yuri’s back while Yuri curled up sideways in his seat, facing away from him. It was completely different from any of the times Otabek had touched him. This was indisputably familial; that had never been, not for him. 

At one point, one of Yuuri’s hands left, and judging by the shifting of his posture and the mewing of Victor, he was touching his fiance. Yuri made a sound of protest, and the other hand returned. He swore he could feel the amused look the two exchanged, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. 

 

When the plane touched down in Almaty, it was evening, the sun only beginning to crest the horizon with twilight. This was Yuri’s third time in Almaty. He’d visited for a week the previous summer, and the city had hosted the Four Continents only months earlier. Thus, he had some spatial familiarity of the airport, and the streets beyond it. 

They took a taxi to the hospital, Yuri checking his phone for news stories five times during the drive. There were no updates. 

“Yuri,” Victor said, pushing a bottled water into his line of sight. Yuri took it and gulped a third of it in one go. He hadn’t even felt thirsty until he saw it, glistening with condensation. But when Victor offered him a slice of orange, he recoiled. 

“Take it, Yuri,” Victor said, in a rare serious tone that Yuri always found disturbing. 

“No. I will throw up.”

“Is there anything you will eat?” Victor asked. 

“No,” Yuri said, and Victor sighed. 

They’d already tried feeding him on the plane, and his stomach was knotted even worse now. If Otabek was -- if it was bad news, Yuri wouldn’t be keeping anything down. He really couldn’t imagine himself eating anything again until he saw Otabek alive and well with his own eyes. 

When they got to the hospital, which was an enormous labyrinth, Yuri took the lead. His whole body pulsed with adrenaline as he rushed to find Otabek. 

He opted for stairs over the leisurely elevators, taking two steps at a time up the five floors to the trauma wing. Finally, he emerged into a dimly lit waiting room, with hideous teal wall paper and matching bench seats and a man sitting there who looked exactly like Otabek only twenty years in the future. Beside him sat a woman who had to be Otabek’s mom. 

“Yuri,” she said, standing and embracing him so fast, he was too stunned to form a real reaction. “He is still in surgery,” she said, standing back and taking his left hand in both of hers. With her large, emotive eyes and apple cheeks, she didn’t look much like Otabek -- and yet she did. Yuri was too disoriented to make sense of why. 

“Oh,” she said, noticing Victor and Yuuri. “Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki.”

“We’re sorry to intrude, Mrs. Altin,” Victor said. “We’re here to support Yuri and be of service to the family in any way we can.” 

“It is no intrusion,” Mrs. Altin said firmly, gripping their hands for emphasis. “I’m glad to see Otabek’s friends. He will be glad to see you, too. And please, call me Vara.” 

Otabek’s father came forward to stand beside his wife, his Otabek-eyes moving across Yuri, then the others. He was dressed in traditional Muslim robes, and was thus in stark contrast to his wife’s black slacks and frilly green blouse. 

The man was more than a little intimidating, despite the fact that Yuri had at least three inches of height on him. His inscrutable face and silence were all too easy to interpret as hostility, but Yuri knew better than to jump to that conclusion. Besides, he couldn’t truly bring himself to care. 

“How much longer will he be in surgery?” Yuri asked. 

Mrs. Altin -- Vara -- shook her head. “We don’t know. It’s already been four hours. Please, let’s sit.” 

Yuri didn’t want to sit, but he wasn’t going to refuse Otabek’s mother such a simple request. They took the seats across from each other. 

“What are his injuries?” Yuri asked. “Mehli mentioned head trauma.” His voice was barely a rasp; was barely his own. 

“Yes,” Vara said, her eyes welling. “When the truck hit him, he was thrown some twenty feet. Luckily, he was wearing his helmet. Still, he had some cranial bleeding. Three broken ribs, broken arm, his left arm, and significant blood loss. But once they stop the cranial bleeding, he will be out of danger.” She sniffled into a wadded up tissue, and Mr. Altin whispered something to her in Kazakh, his eyes landing on Yuri in a glare. Yuri glared back. He knew from what little Otabek divulged that the man was an asshole. Well, Yuri was an asshole, too. 

“Who was driving the truck?” Yuri asked. 

“A young woman,” Vara said. “She swerved when a bee landed on her. Apparently, she’s quite allergic. It was truly an accident, a dreadful accident.” 

Yuri barely stifled a scoff. The bitch had probably been texting, and made up the bee story to avoid criminal charges. 

Vara cocked her head at him, her eyes fraught with compassion, and that’s when Yuri saw the resemblance. It landed hard in his stomach, along with the realization that he might have seen Otabek’s eyes for the last time. 

He stood up and hurried away, holding his hand over his mouth to keep from sobbing. He went around the corner, not daring to go further, lest the doctor came out. He sagged against the wall, holding his head in his hands and struggling to control his breathing, when someone approached. 

“Leave me alone, pig!” he roared, looking up to find Vara standing there, with a shocked expression. 

“N--no, not you, I thought you were -- sorry.” His face was blisteringly hot. Of all the fuck ups...

“Yuri,” she said, the kindness returning. “I understand. You are very much like him, you know.” Yuri lowered his brows in doubt, and she actually laughed. “He hasn’t always been so calm, so stoic. And he still isn’t, on the inside. He’s...what’s that expression? Still waters run deep.” She laughed again, kneading a tear from the corner of her eye. “He would be horrified if he knew I was telling you these things. You are his favorite person. He talks so often about his Yura.” 

Yuri dug his hands into his sweater pockets and stretched his fingers, wondering if he could pierce the fabric. He had to will the heat in his body elsewhere, so much of it was behind his nose, in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” she went on. “I don’t want to upset you further. Though it does touch me how much you care about my son. He has other friends, and a few of them have stopped by, or called. Many family friends have called. Relatives have come and gone, and will be back. But you can always tell, in a crisis, who is present out of obligation and who is present because absence is an impossibility. When my daughter told me you were coming, I was not too surprised. Though I do hope you told your family?” 

He nodded. His grandpa was his whole family. 

Otabek’s father rounded the corner suddenly, and Yuri bolted completely upright, his heart jumping to his throat in anticipation. But from the rapid-fire Kazakh and the way he cast his eyes sharply at Yuri, Yuri realized the interruption wasn’t about Otabek’s condition.

Vara countered his words in a slew of furious whispers, her hands gesticulating in emphasis. Mr. Altin held Yuri’s gaze in a final dark look, which Yuri returned, and then the man walked away. 

“He doesn’t want us here,” Yuri stated. Vara faced him with an apologetic smile. 

“I am going to be blunt with you. May I be blunt?” Yuri nodded. Of-fucking-course you can, he longed to say. “My husband would be happier right now if a young woman had rushed all the way from Russia to see Otabek.” Yuri waited for more, but that was all she said. 

“He wishes Beka had a Russian girlfriend?” Yuri supplied, and he instantly pictured Mila. And she’d wanted to accompany him. How amusing that could have been...

Vara gave him a strange look, like he was cute, but also a little slow. “Any girlfriend. But he is just searching for somewhere to put his anger. I have faith that he will simmer down once Otabek is out of surgery, and out of danger. For now, would you come sit with me, Yuri? Let’s talk about skating.” There was a spark of desperation in her eyes, and Yuri understood. She was seeking a distraction. He wondered at the heft and volume of her own distress, and it hurt to breathe. 

He nodded, but before he could start walking back, she touched his wrist. “I really am such a fan of your skating. Did -- has my son ever told you?” 

“No,” Yuri said, rather petulantly. “I will give him sh-- crap for it later.” 

She smiled, like what he said belonged in a Hallmark card. 

“Of course, I am a fan of Yuuri and Victor’s, too,” she stage-whispered, as they approached the waiting room. The Katsudon looked up, his stupid face radiating kindness, and Victor half stood, like he was seated at a Victorian era dinner table. 

“Ugh,” Yuri scoffed. “Please don’t tell them that.” 

 

She did, but it was fine. Victor didn’t preen, or otherwise act like an idiot. Rather, he thanked her graciously and then showed her cellphone footage of Yuuri’s short program. Vara gasped and murmured like it was some kind of masterpiece, and Yuri wished he had footage of his own short program to share. 

Still, it was a precious distraction, offsetting the knot that had taken residence in his stomach. Every time a doctor appeared, they all fell silent, and it took a minute for them to return to any semblance of conversation. 

About an hour into this, another doctor hurried by in yet another false alarm, and Vara burst into tears. 

“I can’t wait any longer!” she cried, and she ran to the nearby reception desk. Mr. Altin followed her, and Yuri clutched the back of his chair, watching as Otabek’s father held his wife and spoke to the receptionist in calm Russian. 

“How awful for them,” Katsudon said, his voice frail. 

“I know,” Victor said. “I can’t even imagine it.” 

Yuri wanted to tell them to shut up. Otabek would be fine. They were not allowed to even allude to any other outcome. (And yet, he acknowledged that if they were behaving airheadedly optimistic, he’d be even angrier. Yuri was difficult, he knew that.) 

(Otabek could handle him. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the high maintenance nightmare that was Yuri Plisetsky.) 

Yuri half got out of his chair when the Altins returned, but Mr. Altin gestured at him to stay down. 

“They would tell us no updates,” the man said, shocking Yuri by speaking to them. “Sit Vara, please.” She did, her face pressed into her husband’s shoulder. 

“It’s been too long, they won’t tell us anything because he’s probably--”

“No,” Mr. Altin and Yuri said at once, and they looked at each other, Otabek’s father giving away the sparest emotion with a crease of his brow. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Forgive me.” 

This elicited a chorus of, “You’ve done nothing wrong,” “Don’t be sorry,” “We’re sorry,” “What can we do to help?” None of these sentiments belonged to Yuri. The raw vulnerability of the moment had pushed him against the walls of his skin. For the first time all day, he was consciously and utterly grateful for the presence of Victor and Katsuki, who could actually talk. 

“He’s not allowed to ride that motorcycle anymore,” Vara said. “I knew something like this would happen eventually. You will make him stop,” she ordered her husband, and her face was actually pretty terrifying. 

“Vara, he will not listen to me,” he replied. and Yuri swore he detected a note of fondness. But maybe it was just for his wife. 

“Then you will talk some sense into him, won’t you, Yuri?” and her lioness face was locked on him. 

“Sorry, but he doesn’t listen to me, either.” 

“Nonsense, Yurio,” Victor said. “You have that poor man wrapped around your every single finger.” The Katsudon sharply muttered something at him in Japanese, and Victor responded with a patented clueless look. Yuri flushed, and bit down a slew of profane invectives. 

“Then it’s settled,” Vara said. Yuri ordered himself to look up at Otabek’s parents, despite the idiotic insinuation Victor had just deposited on the floor like a stink bomb. Vara had her head on her husband’s shoulder, and the man’s eyes bore into Yuri’s in an unreadable look that lasted only one second. 

Yuri scoffed and picked up a magazine, some two year old copy of Russian Vogue, but abandoned it after a mindless riffling through the pages. 

 

During the next half hour, more of Otabek’s family arrived. An aunt, a grandmother, and a male cousin named Rishi who sat next to Yuri, greeting him by name. 

“Otabek mentions you all the time,” Rishi said, providing a startlingly stoic distraction from the three women sobbing only feet away. 

Yuri was familiar with Rishi as well; Otabek hung out with him frequently. But it was Victor and Yuuri who engaged him in polite conversation, while Yuri zoned out, the adrenaline making its rounds through his veins every time he relaxed even the tiniest bit. 

Then, it happened: a doctor emerged from the forbidding double doors, his eyes on their corner of the room. Everyone jumped to their feet. The circulation in Yuri’s body seized as the man approached, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, it was in Kazakh, and Vara collapsed against her husband, sobbing. 

Yuri couldn’t breathe. The fluorescent lighting swirled into his eyes and he staggered. He didn’t even realize he was shouting until someone grabbed his shoulders and shook him. 

“Yuri!” It was Victor. “Shh, Yuri, they’re saying he’s alright. The surgery went well and he’s going to be fine.” 

Yuri covered his face with both hands, because he was losing it. Relief took everything -- the muscles in his legs, the control of his voice, and his capacity to give a fuck, because Beka was alive, he would live, and literally nothing else would ever matter again. 

It took him awhile to realize he was on the floor, curled up in a ball, sobbing, people rubbing his back (obviously Victor and Katsudon.) 

“Yuri, come here,” someone said, and he looked up to find Vara on the floor beside him. She pulled him into her arms, and he found himself hugging her back, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. 

“He’s going to be okay,” she said through her own tears. She rubbed his back and murmured more reassurances, and he allowed himself to accept the feeling of safety. His own mother hadn’t held him like this since he was a child, and he’d missed it, he’d admit it now, because why not. His life had just been made, after all; he could surrender a thing or two. 

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for caring so much about my son.” 

What he said next was definitely the dumbest, most embarrassing thing he’d ever said in his life: “Yeah well, thank you for having him.” 

She laughed and kissed his cheek. He didn’t wipe his face or think she was a hag. He didn’t even care. He might even have liked it a little bit. A mom, he thought, and that thought stood alone. He gave it space. He really only cared about one thing at that moment, and he held his stomach, his surroundings returning. Vara was now mauling Rishi, so Yuri took out his phone and messaged Mehli: _He is out of surgery and they say he will be fine._

He wasn’t sure if she had wifi on the plane, and of course her parents would contact her, too, but he wanted to tell her. He wanted to type the words and stare at them and live inside of them for awhile. 

 

The next hour passed with much different anxiety. Where the first two horrific hours had been stagnant and asphyxiating, the minutes now surged with life. 

Everyone was desperate to see Otabek, even to just peer at him through a window, which was the doctor’s meager offering. Now they were just waiting for Otabek to be set up in a recovery room so they could do that. 

Yuri met Otabek’s grandmother, who fussed over his hair, declaring it the most beautiful hair she had ever seen. Otabek’s aunt agreed, but then she noticed Victor and straight up screamed. As she leaked fluids all over the delighted idiot, and everyone bustled around with abundant anxiety and joy, Yuri retreated to his phone to call his grandfather and text Mila. Then he scrolled his feeds, pausing angrily at every breathless headline about Otabek. 

“No word on the status of Kazakh skater, Otabek Altin.” 

“Otabek Altin still in critical condition at Almaty’s Memorial Hospital.” 

“The future grim for the Hero of Kazakhstan.” 

The comments, of course, were worse. 

“Motorcycle accidents are either fatal or superficial,” one idiot wrote. “If he has a head injury, he’s either dead or fucked up for life. I’m not saying this to upset anyone, but...” 

Yuri scrolled on wrathfully, but the comments continued in that vein, people diagnosing Otabek with brain damage, paralysis, coma. The most frustrating part was that Yuri didn’t know for sure that they were wrong. He only knew that Otabek had survived and “was going to be fine.” But what did that really mean?

His relief dispersed. He drew his knees up to his chest, unable to ward off visions of Otabek in a wheelchair, eyes glazed over, seeing Yuri without recognition. To have Beka alive, but gone at the same time...

“Yuri?” Katsudon said, cupping his shoulder. 

“I want to see him already,” Yuri said, swiping at the tears like they were mud on his face. 

“I know.” He paused, watching Yuri in that dangerous way that meant he was about to say something sappy. “They say the surgery went well. They expect him to make a full recovery. But I know it’s hard to accept good news until you see it for yourself. I know that, right now, you want to see it.” 

Yuri shrugged, wiping away the tears the moment they emerged, his eyelashes wet against the back of his hand. The Katsudon didn’t say anything more; he just rubbed Yuri’s upper back until Yuri gave in to the increasingly hollow pain in his stomach and laid his head on Yuuri’s shoulder. He would never hear the end of it, but fuck, he needed someone to hold him steady. Without Beka or his grandpa, there was the Katsudon. How and when the Katsudon had become his number three was utterly mystifying, but he couldn’t be outraged, not when the man was running his fingertips around Yuri’s back just right. It wasn’t weird or revolting or anything except exactly what he needed. 

One day, he’d return the favor. Katsuki would be ambushed with acts of kindness so savage, he wouldn’t be able to see straight. Yuri took hold of this promise of power, and let himself relax, just a little. 

 

When a nurse arrived to bring them to the recovery ward, Yuri had to fight the urge to run all the way there. Luckily, it didn’t take long before they were herded down a hallway and parked in front of a window, behind which was a bed outfitted with tubes and cords, all plugged into Otabek. 

Yuri planted his hands on the window and stared. 

There was Otabek’s face, his signature eyebrows, his familiar nose, but the rest of him was hidden. White gauze covered his head, a tube sprouted from his mouth, and he wore a thick neck brace. His left arm was in a cast. Bruises and abrasions marred the parts of his face that could be seen. 

“I must go in there, please,” Vara said, and the doctor permitted the parents to enter. The rest of them were ushered back to the waiting room, Yuri trembling all over and pressing the heel of his hand against fresh tears. This time, he fled to the bathroom, breaking down into sobs the moment he locked the stall. 

Otabek’s face was burned behind his eyes, laid so bare, his autonomy stolen. _I wish it were me_ , Yuri thought, then said it out loud, just so he could feel the words in his mouth. He cursed and thumped his head against the wall, defying the urge to do it again, harder. He wanted to be the one who was hurt, and the desire was not entirely noble. Because then he’d be the one unconscious and oblivious. He wasn’t strong enough to be on the safe side of that fucking glass wall, looking in on the ravaged body of the man he loved -- 

Yuri balled his fists against his eyes and cried even harder. It wasn’t exactly an epiphany. He’d been stupid-in-love with Otabek since the beginning. But he’d held the feelings down, called them different names (friendship, brotherhood, bromance, confusion), feared them, brandished fear upon them, but now he was beaten. He was nothing but 140 pounds of love for Otabek, and it wasn’t so great. 

He wasn’t going to do it alone anymore. As soon as Otabek was well enough to hear it, Yuri was going to give him an earful. He would not be a coward, not anymore. Otabek might completely reject him, but there were worse fucking things. 

He splashed water on his face and glared at his reflection, his eyes bright green and wrathful. He didn’t have to consciously recall what Otabek had said about his eyes that first day, almost two years earlier. It was always there. 

_You love me back, maybe not in the same way, bit enough to be stuck with me for the rest of your life._ Yuri was confident of this, and it carried him. 

 

Yuri wasn’t in the waiting room long when it was suddenly his turn to visit Otabek. The nurse was exceptionally chatty (and, like most people in Almaty, fluent in Russian.) As they walked to the ICU, she gave him more information than anyone else had yet. 

“We’re keeping the visits short,” she explained. “Too much activity could distress him. Even though he’s in a coma, he is a 7 on the Glascow scale, meaning we expect him to regain consciousness in the next few hours. Part of the issue right now are the medicines in his system. It slows down the wake-up process.” 

She walked briskly down the long corridor. He didn’t have much time to ask her questions, so he got on with it. 

“What kind of surgery did he have?” 

“A craniectomy. The accident caused a build up of pressure in the skull, so a part of the skull was removed to relieve that pressure. We put it back, don’t worry.” She actually winked at him, but he was too horrified to see past her words. 

“So he’s going to be fucking brain damaged.” 

She stopped and looked at him, her eyes filling with compassion. 

“Your friend’s prognosis is very good. The post-op scans were encouraging, there were no complications, he is young and otherwise in good health. Does he have a long road of recovery ahead of him? Yes. Will he have any permanent impairments? It’s possible. No two brain injuries are the same. But--”

“Will he skate again?” 

“We are optimistic that--”

“If you’re optimistic, then just say yes.” 

He expected a scolding, but her mouth quirked. “I can’t tell the future, I can only project based on the data available.” 

“Can you keep walking?” he snapped, taking off at a rapid pace. She joined him without effort. She did not speak again until they reached the horrible window. 

“Talk to him,” she murmured, like they were in a library. “He can hear you. It might help.” She opened the door for him and he slipped inside. 

The room was insular with the sounds of the heart monitor and Beka’s soft breathing. The awful thing was out of his mouth now, but he still had enough tubes in him to look like a sci-fi prop. 

Yuri sat down in the chair by the bed. “Beka,” he said, to the sleeping face of his best friend. Not sleeping. Sleep was usually a decision. It was normal. Otabek had been arranged carefully on the bed, his neck braced, his arms tucked into his sides. Otabek didn’t sleep like that. He slept on his stomach or on his left side. They’d fallen asleep together enough times for Yuri to know. 

“Listen up, Altin,” he said. “You’re going to wake up. Soon. And you’re going to have to be you still. Do you hear me?” 

Otabek, of course, did not move an inch. His chest rose and fell, but the familiar arch of his closed eyes, and the smooth, inscrutable planes of his face gave no hint of perception. Panic called distantly in Yuri’s mind, urging him to yell. Because this wasn’t sleep. Otabek wasn’t there, just beyond a fuzzy wall of slumber. It was thicker. It was metallic fog. 

“Beka,” he said, placing his hand on his friend’s. “I need you to wake up. I need -- I need you.” His voice broke, and he stared up at the ceiling, willing his stupid body to just hold itself together. “You know it’s true, and you’re such an altruistic bastard, I know this is the most compelling argument I can make. Get back here and take care of me, Hero of Kazakhstan.” He started to curse, but the word retreated. He couldn’t be vulgar in the hushed land of Otabek’s coma. It was like a temple. He had to be humble and supplicating and lay himself bare. 

“Listen,” he said, twining his fingers through Otabek’s and leaning closer. “I’ve figured something out. I love you. And if you don’t wake up soon, I’m going to self destruct. I can’t stand this, Beka. As long as you’re stuck here, so am I.” 

He rested his chin on the edge of the bed, his body aching with exhaustion. He imagined Otabek waking up at that very moment, movie-perfect, Yuri not noticing until familiar fingers moved through his hair. Yura, he’d say, and just like that, everything would be okay again. 

Yuri actually braced himself for Otabek’s stirrings of consciousness, willed it to happen, his heart stuttering in anticipation. So when the nurse tapped on the door, he very nearly jumped. 

“We need to run some vitals on him now,” she murmured. Yuri stood up, his eyes lingering on Otabek’s face, but there was no change. Stoic, Yuri thought, holding onto that thread of Otabek’s character to normalize his current state, but it wouldn’t stick. It didn’t count if it wasn’t Beka’s choice. Yuri vowed never to take for granted Otabek’s every minute gesture or expression. Nothing could ever be small enough. 

Leaving him behind felt as wrong as walking away from shelter and into a snow storm, under-dressed and alone. 

 

Of course, Yuri wasn’t alone. Victor and Yuuri were waiting for him with coffee just the way he liked it (cream, no sugar) and a Styrofoam container of soup from the cafeteria. He took the coffee but set the soup aside, his stomach revolting at the mere idea. 

“You must eat, Yuri,” Victor said, using a look that honed an edge of warning. 

“I will,” Yuri said, without venom. He was in the chair he had claimed as his own, his knees drawn up to his chin. The truth was, he was more tired than hungry. He could sleep, and in fact a part of him wanted to do just that, for however long it took for Otabek to wake up. That was the closest he’d get to his friend at the moment -- inhabiting the same realm of unconsciousness. 

“Yuri,” Victor said. “Yakov insists that we return tomorrow.” 

Yuri turned, mouth gaping over a slew of obscenities, but Victor had one finger up in silence. “I told him no. I told him we would stay here as long as you needed, and that I would coach you and Yuuri on Almaty ice. I’m sure we can make the proper arrangements with Otabek’s people.”

Yuri stared at him, his mind miles behind Victor’s words. He couldn’t think beyond the next hour, much less the days and weeks Victor implied. 

“It won’t take Beka that long to wake up,” he said. 

“Oh, I know that,” Victor said in his cheerful stupid way that was actually reassuring this time. “I also know that you won’t be rushing for the airport the moment our Otabek wakes up. You’ll want to fluff his pillows and yell at him until you are confident that he is on the mend.” 

Yuri scoffed, but horrifyingly, his eyes filled with tears. He looked away. Victor cupped his shoulder, and Yuri didn’t even have the will to shake him off. 

“Soon enough, this will all be a terrible memory,” Victor said. 

“What, you saying stupid shit to me in a hospital waiting room?” He held the back of his hand to his nose until the burn passed. 

Suddenly, Victor’s arms were around him from behind, chin buried in Yuri’s shoulder. 

“I love you, you little monster,” he said, holding tighter when Yuri tried to wriggle free. 

“Agh, get off me, old man! Katsudon, get him off!” He heard the creak of the chair as Yuuri stood up. But instead of ordering the man-dog down, the Katsudon hugged Yuri’s other half. “Aaaagh!” Yuri knew that everyone was staring at them, and indeed heard giggling. 

“We do love you, Yurio,” Katsudon said. “Whether you like it or not.” 

“He likes it,” Victor said. 

“Get off me, you idiots!” They finally let go, Victor chuckling, and Yuuri touching his shoulder a beat longer before returning to his spot. Yuri ducked his face close to his phone and did his best to appear nothing but enraged. The gratitude was too soft, too pink. He kept it for himself. 

 

Yuri had actually started to doze off when a nurse ran into their corner. 

“I just wanted to let you all know that he is awake,” she said. Yuri almost fell out of his chair and was on his feet rushing before he could even properly feel the ground. 

“His parents are with him,” the nurse said, holding her hands out to stop him, and the mob of others. “You’ll all to get to see him in time, don’t worry. He’s very alert for his current state, and the doctors are encouraged.” 

Otabek’s relatives started hugging each other and weeping (including Otabek’s coach, who had recently arrived from the Nebelhorn Tropy.) Yuri dropped his head in between his knees, as the predictable flurry of hands petted his back. 

Yes, he was crying again, but smiling, too, laughing like a maniac. Another boulder of dread lifted from the pit of his stomach and suddenly he was hungry. 

Then, the room hushed in alarm and Yuri looked up, the boulder returning with a crash, because Otabek’s parents were returning, his mother moving especially fast. 

“Vara, what--” her sister began.

“Yuri,” Vara said, kneeling before him and all but hauling him to his feet. “He’s asking for you.” 

Yuri’s heart exploded in his chest, and he barely took in her smiling face, streaked with tears, before he took off running for Otabek’s room. By now he knew the way, but the nurse still followed him, urging him to slow down. 

He couldn’t. Even if for some reason he decided to follow directions for once in his life, decisions were beyond his grasp. 

When he got to the room, and saw Otabek through the glass, his eyes appeared closed and Yuri literally whimpered. Had he missed it? Had he been too slow?

“Are you Yuri?” A doctor was standing beside the door. 

“Yes,” Yuri replied, darting to get around her, but she blocked his way. His eyes must have shot fire, because she held out both arms in a blocking gesture and said, “I will let you in, but I need you to calm down. We can’t have him over excited, and he already got pretty excited when he found out you were here.” 

A sensation like light shooting up his chest made Yuri pause to breathe. 

“He is never excited.” He looked past her and through the stupid small window in the door, and saw Beka’s face, the slits of his open eyes. He surged forward, but the tiny doctor held him back with (impressive) ease. 

“Listen. He’s not himself,” she said. “He’s got a lot of drugs in his system. So please, talk quietly, move slowly, and don’t attempt any complex or upsetting conversation. Touch him carefully and sparingly, and don’t get carried away if you kiss him.” 

“Fine, I -- wait, haaah?!” 

She opened the door for him with a small nod, and he immediately forgot whatever had just shocked him, because there was Otabek and his eyes were open and following Yuri’s journey around his bed. Yuri had to fight very hard not to run.

“Yura,” he said, his voice pure rasp, and Yuri finally arrived beside the bed and stood over him, his eyes wide and starved for Otabek’s own. Looking at him, seeing him, again. Yuri suddenly couldn’t feel his body. 

“Beka.” He gripped the bed’s metal bar hard, but a few tears escaped anyway, fat enough to leave rivulets. 

“Yura,” Otabek repeated, lifting his hand, and Yuri snatched it at once, holding it in both of his. Otabek’s brows furrowed, the concern surfacing on his exhausted face. “You okay?” 

Yuri barked a laugh as even more tears blurred his eyes. “You -- unbelievable -- bastard, damn.” He broke into more laughter and laid his head on the edge of the bed. Otabek’s fingers swiped his forehead, and Yuri looked up, releasing the hand trapped between his own. Otabek’s palm slid over his cheek, and Yuri leaned into it, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“You’re really here.” 

“Of course I am.” 

“Yura, look at me.” Yuri opened his eyes at once, alarm rising in his chest. He was about to ask if Otabek was alright, but the words shrank on his tongue at the way Otabek looked at him. Not even in Otabek’s most unguarded moments had he ever looked so affectionate. His eyes were like the waterfall picture, but more. 

Otabek slurred something, and what Yuri heard had to be wrong. But the words he might have heard spread from his face to the very tips of his toes, the rest of his body accepting what his ears could not: “You’re too beautiful to be real.”

“Beka, what--?” 

“You should be training,” Otabek said, squinting against some puzzle, and Yuri could practically feel the realizations forming in his friend’s still delicate mind. “You should -- you don’t--”

“I am exactly where I want to be, Altin,” Yuri said, so glad his voice was strong now, that his tears had dried. 

“Yura.” Otabek blinked heavily and ran his thumb across Yuri’s lower lip, maybe by accident, maybe not. Yuri’s heart surged all the same, touch defeating logic, and he held Otabek’s wrist steady so that he could press kisses into his palm. Otabek’s sharp intake of breath made him pull back and search Otabek’s face in concern. His eyes had fallen shut, and a tiny smile deepened the corners of his mouth. 

Yuri felt himself smiling, too, his heart churning sap instead of blood. He held Otabek’s hand still, stroking each finger, thumbing the callouses on his palm, his blunt finger nails. 

In simple touch, he told Otabek’s hand everything he felt: _I have never been more scared, please don’t ever do anything like this again, I need you, I fucking love you..._

“Sleeping,” Otabek mumbled. “Don’t want to.” 

“Well, you need to, stupid. Just...don’t sleep too long. I’m waiting.” 

A smile pulled hard and quick on Otabek’s face, but he didn’t open his eyes. Gradually, his breathing evened out, deep and familiar. A true sleep, not the frightening, submerged thing from before. 

The door opened with a soft click, and the doctor was there, summoning him out. Yuri placed Otabek’s hand gingerly on the bed and followed her, watching Otabek until he absolutely had to turn away. 

 

Yuri spent the next few hours dozing and devouring food supplied by an Altin relative. At one point, he wound up with his head in Katsudon’s lap, who was sprawled rather comically over the edge of the seat. More than one witness took a photo. 

As the night wore on, people went home to sleep, inevitably insisting that Yuri (and thus Victor and Katsudon) stay the night in their spare rooms. But Yuri had no intention of leaving the hospital just yet, and his self imposed guardians would not leave him, either. (Yuri actually felt bad about this, particularly when the two old geezers squirmed around the inadequate chairs in discomfort.) 

By five a.m., it was just Yuri and his geezers and Otabek’s parents. Vara did not sleep at all, and was in the process of begging the nurse to allow her to stay in Otabek’s room when a newcomer rushed into her arms. 

Yuri, half asleep, roused himself and stretched just in time for this person to bleat his name and maul him, too. He got a look at her familiar face before she was running alongside her parents down the hall to see Otabek. Yuri stretched his body awake, noticing how Otabek’s father held Mehli’s hand. 

“Is that his sister?” Yuuri asked, stirring from his position in Victor’s arms. Yuri hummed an affirmative, checking his phone and noticing Mehli’s recent replies to his texts: _Thank you, Yuri. I’m glad you’re there._

Yuri was sleepy enough to doze some more, but he wanted to wait for Mehli to return so that he could meet her properly. Which was a weird instinct for him to have. 

Nearly twenty minutes passed before they returned. 

“He’s awake and asking for you, Yuri,” Mehli said, when he stood up. Her face was stained red from crying, but she smiled like she was on the brink of joyous laughter. 

Yuri nodded and took off down the hall, not waiting for any official approval. Dipped in the shadows of the vacant hall, he smiled back, at every single thing responsible for Otabek’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment. If I don't get at least 18 comments, I won't post another chapter!!!!!111111111 (Just kidding, I'd continue posting even if was the lone survivor of the zombie apocalypse. Still, tho. Talk to me.)


	5. 4:02 p.m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens at 4:02 p.m? Someone confesses something to someone else. You know what I mean. Who will crack first?
> 
> (This is some of the sappiest shit I have ever written.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the wonderful and delicious comments! You all are the bestest. <3

Otabek couldn’t remember the accident. He only remembered the motorway, the sunlight, and then Yuri’s face in the ICU. His eyes watercolor turquoise, a line of water on his cheeks. _Yura_ , he’d thought, his thoughts emerging from the shadow space of trauma to twine around the orb of light that was his best friend. 

Later (hours, only) he thought he’d dreamed it. Yuri’s hands cradling his own, Yuri’s lips pressing into his palm. 

“I’m glad that Yuri is here,” Mehli said, that first night of her visit. 

“Where?” he’d asked, and then, “That was real?” 

They were concerned that this was a sign of brain damage, but even then, he understood it was simple disbelief. Yuri was in Almaty; he’d left Saint Petersburg immediately to be with Otabek. Initially, his brain at low power, stand by mode, Otabek could only marvel at the mysteriousness of Yuri’s presence. He thought he must have dreamed it. 

“Of course I’m here,” Yuri said later. “Where else would I be? Idiot.” 

This memory was clearer, strengthened by touch: Yuri’s hand on his, Yuri’s chin on the mattress, his eyes serene and tired. 

Time was a nebulous nothing. Hours, days, he didn’t know. If he woke up and Yuri wasn’t there, he’d look around, stupid and afraid. “Agitated,” people said about him, in the background. After this happened a few times, it was proposed that Yuri be permitted to stay in Otabek’s room as often as he could, regardless of the hour. Otabek was calmer with Yuri there. 

Otabek woke often to a twilit consciousness and found Yuri in the chair. On his phone, listening to music, sleeping. His hand was frequently on Otabek’s, like it belonged there, and the weight of it felt like a cord of steel connecting them at the core.

_My Yura_ , he would think, especially when Yuri slept, curled up with a fluffy blue pillow that was vaguely familiar. 

Otabek would try to reach him, but his hand never got far from the mattress before it dropped in exhaustion. 

Slowly, the gelatinous hospital surroundings took a more certain form. 

“I almost died.” He said this to Yuri, who had been on his phone, perhaps unaware that Otabek was awake. 

“Yeah, you did.” Yuri watched him, his look blisteringly cold, and yet on the cusp of something breakable. 

“That pillow is from my bed at home.”

And Yuri grinned, digging his face into it before poking at the pillow behind Otabek’s head. 

“So is this one.” 

“Mmm.” 

He held Yuri’s gaze for a long time that day. He could remember it as his first day fully awake, back from the dead. 

 

Becoming human again had its ups and downs. 

The first time Otabek saw his reflection -- his bruised face, his shaved head, the ugly scar on his scalp -- he felt great pity for his mother. No wonder she broke down into tears almost every time she saw him. 

“You look no stupider than you usually look,” Yuri helpfully pointed out. But his expression was kind. 

Otabek knew he looked horrific. In the movies, characters were injured so prettily, their bruises strategically placed on cheekbones, enhancing their eyes and lips like the best makeup. Swelling didn’t exist, nor did scars clotted with blood. 

Meanwhile, Yuri was fucking breath taking. He’d grown even more since they’d last met, and not just in height. Lean muscle now resided on his hips, his arms, his legs. Whenever he stood up to stretch, Otabek would watch his t-shirt ride up his back, revealing the dip of his spine and the strong shifting of muscles. And his hair...it was over halfway to his waist. 

“Let me see if I can braid it,” Otabek said one day that first week. Yuri just arched an eyebrow and plopped on the edge of the bed. He didn’t remind Otabek that he had a broken arm and broken ribs and the collective strength of two small kittens. He just played on his phone as Otabek gathered his silky hair into his hand, ignoring the pain and the plaster claw of his left arm as he formed the sloppiest braid in human history. 

“Hrm. Sorry,” he said, as Yuri felt along the bumpy blond tail. When Yuri shook his head and held his forearm against his face for a beat too long, Otabek realized he was crying. 

“I’ll get better, Yura,” Otabek said, hazarding a guess. 

“I know that,” Yuri snapped, squeezing his braid as if for safety. “It’s just, I didn’t know if you’d ever do that again. Play with my hair, I mean. I’m just happy, okay?” 

“I am, too,” Otabek said, rubbing Yuri’s shoulder blades through his thin t-shirt. Yuri turned halfway, his eyelashes wet with tears, and parted his lips in such a way that Otabek sensed importance. 

But then the door opened and his parents were there with Mehli, just on time as always. 

Yuri made a hasty retreat. 

 

Yuri, Victor, and Katsuki stayed for two weeks. Skate America was only weeks away, and they all needed to get back into their normal training routine at their home rink in Saint Petersburg. 

Every night that second week, Yuri spent hours in Otabek’s room, and everyone left them alone. Now that Otabek was more alert and sitting up with minimal pain, Yuri sat beside him on the bed to play cards, watch cat videos on his tablet, and offer Otabek his hair for “physical therapy.” 

The latter activity was of course Otabek’s favorite. Yuri sat on the edge of the bed with his back to Otabek, his hips flush against Otabek’s chest, the smell of his hair intoxicating as ever. 

Otabek’s senses were heightened following the surgery. He’d smell his mother’s perfume from down the hall, would hear his father’s quiet voice through the closed door. And Yuri’s mere presence would rouse him from sleep. He could quite literally taste the blond of his hair, and was convinced that Yuri had summoned him from his coma by simply existing in the same room. 

Then came Yuri’s last day in Almaty. He had to leave at 4:30 for his flight, and it was 3:47. They’d been watching some TV movie, Yuri stretched out beside him on the bed, his head on Otabek’s shoulder. 

Otabek was already playing with Yuri’s hair, his good hand combing through it, fingers teasing his scalp, reveling in the little shivers Yuri couldn’t hide (if indeed he meant to hide them.) 

Though still hungover on drugs most of the time, Otabek experienced moments of stunning clarity, these thoughts striking like lightning bolts to his brain. 

Now, knuckle deep in Yuri’s hair, such a thought pierced him to the marrow: _you love Yuri, and you cannot just be friends anymore._

Emotion welled up in his stomach, where it so often lived, only this time, his eyes stung, too. 

He could have died. The doctors told him this every day, as if begging him to understand. He wouldn’t skate again for a long time. His body might never be quite the same. 

None of these things had quite “hit” him yet, but Yuri had always been there, lurking in his cells since Otabek was fourteen years old and he’d looked into those eyes for the first time. Yes, he loved Yuri, and he’d known it for awhile. But now he knew he was going to tell him, because he couldn’t not. 

_You’ve already told him, every day, you’re telling him right now, stupid. Most friends don’t touch each other like this. Your friendship has never been neutral; there has always been a current of something warmer between you._

(This internal voice sounded alarmingly like Yuri.) 

But Yuri had never spoken such words himself, and Yuri was not exactly shy. 

_Yuri isn’t shy about his anger, but he protects his soft places. One breath of rejection, and he retracts. Stop being a fool. He is here, in Almaty, in your bed, letting you touch him. What more do you need, mistletoe dangling over his head on a stick he is holding himself?_

Yes. 

_You could have died, and he never would have known you loved him. You never would have known if he loved you back. How many more times do you need to cheat death before you get it, Altin?_

Otabek was almost done braiding Yuri’s hair. He didn’t want it to be over, because then he’d have to say something, or fail to speak at all, and both outcomes felt equally awful. 

“Beka,” Yuri said suddenly, in an odd little voice. “Will you listen to this track I’m thinking about for my long program?” 

“Of course, Yura,” he replied, relief and panic colliding, because now it was 3:55. Yuri slipped off the bed and rummaged in his tiger-striped backpack, retrieving his iPod. He fiddled with it for a moment before settling back onto the bed on his knees. He handed Otabek the earbuds, his face set with determination, and yet Otabek knew those eyes so well, he saw the uncertainty. 

Otabek offered his best reassuring smile and put the earbuds in. Yuri clutched the iPod in his hands and pushed play. 

The music began in a dreamy melody of piano and strings, gentler than anything Yuri had chosen before. Otabek looked at him, surprised to find Yuri staring at the iPod as if he were avoiding Otabek’s reaction. 

Otabek knew better than to talk over music, especially now, so he listened intently. Gradually, the tempo climbed higher, more Yuri. Otabek could picture him soaring across the ice, his expression raw, as the strange melody imbued his every gesture. 

When it ended, he plucked the earbuds out and held them gingerly in his hand. “That’s beautiful music, Yura. What is it called?” 

Yuri squeezed his eyes shut and thrust the iPod in Otabek’s face. The title of the track read, _Rain, in Your Black Eyes._

Otabek hummed, even as hope twined around his heart. 

“Yura?” he prompted, because his friend was looking away, clutching the iPod face down on the bed. Otabek breathed in deep, and covered Yuri’s hand with his own, for courage and with courage. “Yura--”

“I love you, Beka,” Yuri said, and now he was looking at Otabek, and Otabek could not breathe. “I’m _in love_ with you, I mean, and it’s probably really fucking obvious, but I had to say it, because even if you don’t feel the same way, I want to know. So.” 

“Yura...” He didn’t recognize his own voice, and it must have sounded wrong to Yuri, because he was getting up, getting away. Otabek clutched his hand with all of his strength. Yuri looked at him, his eyes begging -- not for the answer he wanted, but for a swift blow. “Yura. I have been in love with you since the first time I saw you.” Yuri wilted onto the bed, his mouth falling open. “I didn’t think you...I didn’t know, but I loved you, anyway. I couldn’t help it.”

His words felt frail, his mind lacking eloquence, and he couldn’t even blame it on his injuries. He was self combusting, couldn’t feel his feet, and Yuri was staring at him, water standing in his eyes. 

“Beka...”

“Come here, Yura.” He tugged on his wrist, needing Yuri to move for both of them, and he did, leaning in, his hands gripping the sheets. Otabek cupped his cheek, his thumb running across Yuri’s lower lip, and Yuri opened his mouth just enough to snag his flesh. His eyes flickered to Otabek’s, boring into him as he pressed his tongue against his thumb. Otabek sucked in a breath and grabbed Yuri’s chin, his mouth seeking Yuri’s without sight. Their noses and foreheads crashed first and Yuri jerked away with a gasp. 

“Shit, are you oka--”

Otabek took those words into his mouth, in a kiss that wasn’t much more than their lips touching, weightless as motes of light. 

“Oh my God,” Yuri breathed. Otabek corded his fingers into his loose braided hair. 

“Come here,” he whispered, closing the sliver of space between their mouths again. The soft pressure of Yuri’s lips was everything. Otabek held the contact long but delicate, like a cherry between his teeth, until Yuri pushed, opening his mouth over Otabek’s upper lip. It was gentle; he could taste the pink of Yuri’s lips as Yuri covered every inch of his mouth in first kisses. 

“Beka,” he murmured, dragging the kiss across his cheekbone. Otabek turned his face, claiming Yuri’s mouth with enough force to swallow his answering gasp. His savored the velvet fullness of Yuri’s lips in one slow kiss before licking into his mouth. Yuri’s tongue pushed against his own, so perfect, the strength sapped from Otabek’s fingers. When his head fell against the pillow, the only word he could grasp was _lush._

Yuri was still arched over him, their foreheads touching. Yuri’s eyes were right there, truly a tiger’s green, like he wanted to put his mouth on Otabek and bite down. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Otabek said, touching Yuri’s face. Yuri clutched his wrist and leaned into the touch, turning just enough to kiss Otabek’s palm. Slowly, he sat back on his haunches, keeping Otabek’s hand in his. 

They just stared at each other for a moment, the newness of touch like a live wire between them. 

“We’re so stupid,” Yuri said. “I’ve been in love with you since Barcelona, and you’ve been in love with me since...” His cheeks flushed pink. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?!” 

Otabek shook his head. “I was afraid. And you were only fifteen.”

“Yeah, I _was_ , but I haven’t been fifteen for awhile, and so what? You’re not that much older than me, Altin.” He scoffed and looked down. “I even thought you might be straight.” 

Otabek smirked. “Not even a little bit.” Then, his brain latched onto the words that had flown over his head moments before. “Since Barcelona, Yura?” 

Yuri leaned in. “Yes, since Barcelona, asshole. Though it took me a minute to realize what was going on. It’s not like I’ve been in love before.” 

“Me neither. There has only ever been you.” 

Yuri opened his mouth and then closed it, his eyes summer soft. He shook his head and crawled into Otabek’s space, kissing him. Otabek smiled against his lips, savoring the delicious pressure of Yuri’s kisses. Gentle but starved, like Otabek’s mouth was life sustaining. Yuri’s lips veered down his jaw, then sank against his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose, the bruises beneath his eyes. 

“By the way,” Yuri rumbled against his temple. “Your mom asked me to make you give up your bike.” 

Otabek hummed in response, his hand trickling down Yuri’s back. He hummed again, lower, when Yuri shivered. 

“I’ll do anything you want, Yura,” he said. Yuri sat back again, eyes narrow. 

“How high on pain killers are you?” 

“My mind is clear. It has never been so clear. You are the clearest part, Yura. I wasn’t going to let you leave without telling you. But then you spoke first. You’re so much braver than I am.” 

“Ugh.” Yuri held his eyes shut. Pink dusted his cheeks and he tipped his head in a way that would normally bring his hair over his face. Otabek reached up and traced the line of his jaw, his heart aching, like it had shed its skin and felt the echo of touch with no buffer. 

“Fuck,” Yuri said, taking Otabek’s hand and kissing his wrist. “I don’t want to go. I’ll just tell Victor and Katsudon to leave without me.” 

“No, Yura,” Otabek said. “You must get back to work. Train hard and skate for both of us. I will work hard to get better.” 

“I wish we could trade places,” Yuri said. “This is bullshit. You’re the nicest person on earth. This shouldn’t have happened to you.” His voice cracked on the last few syllables and he looked away, biting his lower lip into his mouth. 

“I’m alright, Yura,” Otabek said. “You love me. I feel nothing but gratitude.” He stopped himself from adding, _I’d get hit by a truck all over again just for this moment._ He sensed too keenly the pain his accident had caused Yuri.

“Fuck,” Yuri rasped. “You’re killing me.” Otabek ran his hand up Yuri’s slender wrist, then down again. His skin was so soft. Otabek had always known this, had touched Yuri countless times -- out of necessity, by accident, on purpose, but never quite like this. Not with the deliberate pressure of intimacy. 

Yuri’s eyes fluttered. Such an innocent touch, and his head was cocked in pleasure. Heat flared in Otabek’s stomach. _The things he was going to do to Yuri Plisetsky..._

“Beka,” Yuri said, his eyes on him in green slits. “What are you thinking?” 

Otabek shook his head and looked away. He couldn’t very well lust after Yuri in his condition, and in a hospital bed. He was going to steer the conversation elsewhere. “I love touching you. I love watching your face when I touch you.” Yuri sat up straighter, fisting the blankets. Hrm, that was the exact opposite of what he needed to say, but damn, the look on Yuri’s face...

Yuri leaned close and said, in hardly more than a whisper, “We’ll see what your face looks like the next time we’re alone together, Altin.” He nosed Otabek’s chin and brushed his lips down his throat. Otabek curled his fingers around Yuri’s braid and slid his fist down slowly, feeling each bump. It was the only response he could give, not trusting his voice to make a sound that wasn’t steeped in arousal. 

Yuri laid his head gingerly on Otabek’s chest, and Otabek rubbed his back, the tempo of his heart calming to the gentle thrum of, _Mine._

They didn’t speak anymore. Otabek just held Yuri against his strongest ribs and touched him. The weight of Yuri, the palpable weight of his body and the delicious heft of the honesty between them, filled Otabek with the most sated feeling of his life. 

Then came the inevitable tap on the door. Yuri growled; he did not raise his head, even as Victor and Yuuri peeked inside. 

“Yurio?” Victor hazared.

“I’ll be right out,” Yuri shot, his voice muffled. Otabek ran his braid between his fingers, and gave the men a tiny nod. 

“Take care, Otabek,” Victor said. 

“We will see you again soon,” Yuuri added with a small bow. 

“Thank you,” Otabek said. “Thank you for being here. Have a good flight.” 

“Ugh,” Yuri groaned, as the door clicked shut. “Don’t be so ni--”

Otabek muffled the words with a kiss he knew was desperate, but he hardly cared, especially since Yuri matched him in kind. 

“I love you, Yura,” he said, kissing the line of his jaw. 

“Again,” Yuri ordered, pressing their foreheads together and staring down at Otabek with feral eyes. 

“I love you,” he repeated, kissing him just barely. “I love you.” Then, he reached for him with an open mouth, his toes curling at the wet heat of Yuri’s tongue. When they parted, Otabek thought his head was buzzing, but the sound was Yuri’s -- a low hum of pleasure. 

“Yeah, well, I love you, so much, so fucking -- I’m more repulsive than Victor and Katsudon, that’s how much. I am crazy, stupid in love with you.” 

“You could never be repulsive, Yura.” 

“Crazy and stupid, though...”

“You’re perfect.” 

Yuri scoffed and nuzzled Otabek’s cheek. “You’re the perfect one. Everyone knows it.” He kissed the bridge of his nose and was suddenly off the bed, his skater’s agility second only to teleportation. 

“Text me when you land,” Otabek said, reaching stupidly with his good arm. Yuri took it and kissed his knuckles before backing away. 

“Oh, I will. And you’d better text me back.” 

Otabek smiled. “Be safe, Yura. We’ll see each other again soon.”

“Yeah, we will,” Yuri said, with some ferocity. He opened the door, leopard print backpack slung over his shoulder. “Beka,” he said, like a period, and he was gone. 

“Yura,” Otabek murmured after him. In the silence that followed, panic rose up in his chest, and he had the powerful instinct to call Yuri back to him and beg him to stay. The problem, though, was that Yuri would do it. 

“Yura,” he said again, closing his eyes against the burn of tears. Yuri would skate, and Otabek would get out of the hospital bed. They were very different things, but they both promised to bring them together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rain, In Your Black Eyes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVpMluGD4Sc
> 
> (Yuri's cut is approximately the first seven minutes.)
> 
> I got the idea to use this music when Nicole Rajicova skated to it at the 2017 Worlds: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fTE-p2rfLuE


	6. A soft place to fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri experiences the highs and lows of a long distance relationship with a moody, secretive, and surprisingly lustful Otabek. Recovering from a traumatic brain injury in the confines of a hospital would make anyone act a little strange, but when Otabek's condition threatens their relationship, Yuri must take matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter is a little smutty. Phone sex, dirty talk, that sort of thing. (Just FYI: If smut bothers you, you'll really hate chapter 8. Mwahahaha.) 
> 
> WARNING! This chapter is quite angsty, but have no fear, everything will be fine....eventually. (Spoiler??? Whatevs.)
> 
> In this chapter, Mila levels up to BFF. 
> 
> Thank you for all of the beautiful and stunning comments. I love you all. *sobs*

The first night Yuri skyped Otabek post love-confession, he’d been a wreck. He missed Otabek so much, he could barely swallow. He wanted Otabek so hard, he felt perverted. 

He relived their first kiss hundreds of times. A day. He’d daydream during practice, emerging to Yakov’s howls of frustration. 

Yuri’s first day back, he’d fallen on his footwork and gotten up smiling -- he’d imagined Otabek rushing to his side like the chivalrous idiot that he was -- and Yakov had grumbled, “When they fall in love, they’re useless.” 

Yuri ignored the remark, mostly because he wouldn’t have been able to hide his (partial) agreement. Yes, he was in love, completely out of his mind, existing-on-a-different-plane in love. Victor gave him shit, and he didn’t even care. 

In preparation for his skype “date,” Yuri spent an idiotic amount of time in front of the mirror, doing his hair in different styles. Intertwining French braids, a large bun, the dreaded man bun, swept to the side, a high pony, carefully messy and secured with a clip. He’d just taken it out of such an arrangement when his computer dinged with an incoming call alert. 

Yuri cursed all the way to his room, combing his fingers through his tangles and flinching because they were truly bad. 

He clicked answer call, and suddenly Otabek was there, bathed in lamp light. 

“Yura,” he said, his tone and posture emanating relief. 

“Hey, Beka,” Yuri replied, taking in Otabek’s face -- his soft smile, the fading bruises. His hair was still a mere shadow, a medicinal buzz cut only starting to thicken. He was sitting in a large chair, his broken leg propped on a footstool. 

“Where are you?” Yuri asked. 

“The quiet room,” Beka replied. “Or the private room, depending on who you ask.” 

Oh. Yuri had been pretty stupid to hope that Otabek was anywhere other than the hospital. Otabek had told him he would call as soon as he “got some privacy,” though. Yuri hadn’t anticipated a literal private room. 

“How are you, Yura?” 

Yuri rolled his eyes. “That’s my line, asshole.” Of course Otabek would ask first, while Yuri struggled to find the right words. It was a stupid question to ask Otabek, seeing as the man was in the hospital recovering from brain surgery. If their roles were reversed, Yuri would skewer someone alive for such questions. But...he wanted Otabek to tell him the truth. He wanted his friend...his boyfriend...to know he cared. 

“I’m alright, Yura,” Otabek replied, like his voice would break Yuri if he weren’t soft enough. “I got into this room on crutches.” 

“You’re using crutches?” Yuri asked. The last that Yuri had heard, his doctors didn’t want him even trying crutches for another week at least. 

Otabek hummed in affirmation. Yuri wished he could be purely happy with this development, but worry marred his feelings. 

“I’m fine,” Otabek said, cutting Yuri’s silence. “I’m ready and I’ve been ready.” 

“Okay...” Yuri studied Otabek’s face -- the anger flaring in his eyes. The day after he woke up, the doctor took Otabek’s family aside (“And Yuri,” Vara had insisted) and warned them about the typical “side effects” of brain surgery. Emotional outbursts, anger, mood swings. Yuri had scoffed. 

“Don’t worry about me, Yura,” Otabek said now, recovering his gentle tone. 

“I’ll worry if I want,” Yuri countered. “It’s my own damn business.” 

Otabek watched him without speaking, though his damn eyes shimmered a language entirely their own. _Rain in his black eyes..._

“I love you, Yuri,” he said. “I miss you.” 

Yuri held his eyes closed. Every time Otabek said those words, it was like fireworks went off in his chest. 

“Then I’m on my way back to Almaty. Fuck this season, we’ll return together next year.” He was only a little kidding, and leveled Otabek with his best glare to prove it. 

“Yura...” He said his name like he could touch Yuri with the syllables, the roundness of the vowels. Yuri actually arched his back in his hunger to feel it. “We both have work to do. Then we’ll be together.” 

“Yeah, yeah. But I might die before then.” He dug one hand into his hair and covertly pulled. 

“Yes,” Otabek murmured. “It’s killing me not to be able to touch you right now.” 

Yuri found himself wanting to ask just how private the private room was. “Sorry my hair looks like shit,” he blurted out instead. 

Otabek’s eyebrows twitched and his gaze raked up and down the length of Yuri’s hair, and fuck if Yuri didn’t suddenly feel naked. 

“It’s perfect, Yura.” 

“No it isn’t,” Yuri argued, but he was already blushing. “It would be better if you were here to braid it.” 

“Mmm, I wish I were.” 

Potya crawled into his lap then, and maybe it was her fault that Yuri felt a surge of mischief. “So all those times you played with my hair over the years...” 

“I was loving you,” Otabek responded at once. “And hating myself.” 

The mischief died. “Why?!” 

“I just wanted to touch you.” Otabek winced. “I was being dishonest. I was taking adva--”

“No, nope, don’t fucking -- you were just playing with my hair, Beka. Yeah, it always made my toes curl, but that was my problem.” 

Otabek’s eyes flashed in carnal interest. “That was a problem you had?”

“Yeah, asshole, I have that problem a lot when you touch me.” Otabek closed his eyes. 

“God, Yura...”

The “what” was waiting on his tongue, but Yuri held it there with his teeth. He was already half hard; the very possibility that Otabek might be, too, was too much for him. 

“Anyway,” Yuri pretty much shouted. “How is your grandmother?” 

Otabek’s expression was so comically bewildered, Yuri burst out laughing. 

For the rest of the call, Otabek did talk about his family -- his grandmother and her Otabek-scrapbook, now full of articles about his accident (some of them included facebook comments that she had printed accidentally, but she kept because they were “so nice.”) Otabek did not discuss his physical therapy beyond a few cursory remarks. Yuri knew not to push it, not yet. 

Eventually, someone knocked on the “private room” door, and Otabek fired off a few sentences at the pest in Kazakh. Then he faced the camera again, with an expression on his face that was actually tortured.

“I have to go.” 

Yuri nodded. “Okay. I’ll text you later.” 

That made Otabek smile. Yuri wondered at what precise moment the quality of his life had begun to hinge on making Otabek smile.

“I love you, Yuri.” 

Yuri’s eyelashes fluttered, probably with stardust. “I love you, too.” 

He laid face down in bed for a long time afterwards, shimmering inside. 

 

Over the next four weeks, they skyped every Saturday night, and texted constantly. They would call each other at random times, just wanting to hear the other’s voice. Otabek often did this before his physical therapy, and Yuri, after practice.

During one of these early calls, Otabek said, in lieu of “hi,” “Mehli knows.” 

“Knows what?” Yuri asked, enjoying himself. “Everything? She’s a genius, isn’t she?” 

Otabek was silent for a moment. “It doesn’t bother you?” 

“Um, no? Does it bother you?” Fear dug into the vulnerable places inside of him. Yuri had been too happy to give any thought to the interference of other humans. 

“No,” Otabek replied. “Apparently, my mother has figured it out, too.” 

Dread pinched his nerves. “And your dad.” 

“They have discussed it,” Otabek agreed. “Or, my mother has discussed it, and he has ignored her.” 

Yuri scoffed. “Yeah, he hates me.” 

“He can fuck off,” Otabek said, in such a voice, Yuri was momentarily certain that someone else had joined the call. “He doesn’t hate you,” he went on, calm again. “I can’t even say that he hates me. He sees what he wants to see until he can’t anymore. Yura, I didn’t bring this up to talk about him, or my mom or sister. Their reactions don’t matter to me. You matter to me. We haven’t discussed how open we intend to be with others about our relationship. Before I talked to my sister about it, I wanted to know your thoughts.”

“I don’t care,” Yuri said, though he started to smile. “I mean, I want everyone to know, especially your fans. They’ll be so pissed.” 

“Why? No they won’t.” 

“Beka. They hate me. They want you with Mila.” 

“Mila?” he repeated, like it was the weirdest, grossest thing he’d ever heard, and Yuri burst into laughter. To think he’d once feared that such a thing could happen. “Yura, I wish you wouldn’t read what people say about you on the internet.” 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Yuri said. “Especially now that we’re together. We’ll have to officially announce on instagram, you know. With a photo.” 

“Of course,” Otabek said, and the tender note of his voice literally stirred an army of butterflies in Yuri’s stomach. “What will your fans think, Yuri?” Did Otabek actually sound shy?

“They’ll be ecstatic, and so smug. They’ve wanted us together from day fucking one, and have been trying to prove that it had already happened so many times. Like when I bruised my neck in practice a year ago? They were convinced that you had done that.” 

“They thought I’d hit you?” he asked in horror. 

“Wh--no!” He’d assumed that Otabek would know instantly what he meant, and was not prepared to explain that, No, they thought you had lustfully sucked my neck purple. An absurd rush of embarrassment rendered him mute. 

But then Otabek said, “Oh.” He fell silent, and Yuri’s anxiety multiplied. Maybe Otabek was as pious and proper as he seemed, and was disgusted by such talk? Before Yuri could blurt out something to make it worse, Otabek quietly said, “Only in my dreams.” 

Yuri scoffed, mostly to cover up a whimper. “Mine too. But not anymore. The next time we see each other...” He bit his cheek. His grandfather was in the next room, and Otabek was in a hospital bed, only literally surrounded by rooms full of people who could barge in at any second. 

“I can’t wait.” Was Yuri only imagining the strained quality of his voice? “Sometimes, the thought is the only thing that gets me through the day.” 

Yuri flopped back on the bed, digging his heels into the mattress. 

“Yeah well, thinking about you drives me to distraction. Everyone here knows, by the way. Those assholes. Though I’m not about to talk to them about it. I don’t like sharing.” 

Otabek hummed a laugh. “Me neither.” 

 

Yuri sent Otabek pictures of himself almost every day. This wasn’t exactly a new thing; indeed, he’d been doing it since the first week of their friendship. But while those photos had ranged from playful/grumpy selfies, to encounters with cats, to unflattering Victor shots, these post-love-confession photos quickly escalated into a territory less innocent. 

Like the morning Yuri woke up late on his day off, the sun flooding his blind-covered windows and casting black stripes onto his bed. Yuri pulled the blankets down to his waist and grabbed his phone. After several minutes of painstaking selfie photography, he sent Otabek a picture of himself stretched out on his stomach, sun and shadow splayed across his naked back like tiger stripes. Only the sheet covered him from the waist down, and the curve of his ass looked (frankly) magnificent. He stared directly at the camera through his hair, pretending that Otabek was actually standing in his room with all of the time in the world...

Yuri sent the photo with the message, _Good morning. ;)_

Otabek’s reply came hours later: _fuck._

Yuri was in the kitchen at the time, and sucked in a breath before he could stop himself. His grandfather, stationed at the table reading the paper, looked up at him curiously. 

“Is it your Otabek?”

They hadn’t had an actual “talk” about Otabek, but since returning from Almaty, Nicolai had changed Otabek’s designation from “your Kazakh friend” to the you-aren’t-hiding-shit handle, “your Otabek.”

“Er, yeah,” Yuri said. “He just got out of PT.” 

“Good, good,” Nicolai said, obviously trying not to laugh as Yuri fled to his room (while pointlessly trying to appear anything but urgent.)

As soon as Yuri shut himself up in his room, he sent a text: _Such foul language, Beka._

The reply was immediate: _yes I knw how that offends you._

Yuri raised an eyebrow. From Otabek, typos were as rare as a solar eclipse. Yuri waited, but Otabek didn’t even send a correction with an asterisk. 

Yuri typed up and then deleted a slew of responses: 

_Did I kill you?_ (Too soon. It would always be too soon.) 

_I’m more offended by your terrible spelling._ (What if it was a brain damage thing?) 

_Typing with one hand, are you?_ (And if he was?) 

Yuri flung his phone onto the bed. He’d rarely had trouble responding to Otabek when they were just friends. But now the dynamics had shifted, and they had to navigate these foreign waters with thousands of miles, and hospital walls, between them. 

He scooped his phone back up and typed, _So, was it okay to send a pic like that? Or was it too much?_

Otabek responded right away: _Not too much. Please send any photo you want. My phone is locked._

Yuri smiled so hard it actually hurt. Swallowing a stupid giddy laugh, he decided to say fuck off to caution: _Are you implying that I should send you nudes? You are a filthy man, Beka._

He waited, ridiculously anxious. 

_Yura, I am. Filthy, I mean. Just the thought of that_ The little dots continues. _Don’t do it, Yura, it’s a bad idea, with hackers everywhere._ Dot, dot, dots. _You were probably joking, I know, and I didn’t mean to imply, but maybe I was._ More dots; he had never texted like this before. _I’m sorry for being disrespectful._

The apology scrubbed the filth from Yuri’s mind as efficiently as a grandmother. He groaned and flopped onto his back with extra force, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Then he sat back up and grabbed his phone again. 

_Beka, you couldn’t be disrespectful if you tried. I wasn’t seriously calling you filthy. I was playing. Hoping. I’m trying to figure out..._ Yuri’s fingers hovered over the touch screen letters. This was stupid. Why was he having so much trouble with this conversation? What was he afraid of? That Otabek really was a Victorian schoolmarm, and would fall out of love with him if he discovered what a feral, lust filled beast Yuri actually was? Or was Yuri afraid that once they crossed that line, he would be so inept and awkward, Otabek would fall out of love with him? 

Yuri growled in frustration. He was no coward. He deleted everything, and started over: _There is no way you are filthier than I am, Saint Otabek. And I’m not sorry._ He pressed send and then bent over his phone intently, heart racing.

The reply was fast: _I am no saint. I mean it, Yura. I sincerely doubt you are worse than I am._

Yuri scoffed, the challenge flaring his doubts to dust. _Oh yeah? I stole your sweater and wear it when I jerk off because it smells like you._ He ran his eyes over the words, with the peculiar sensation of standing at the very edge of a diving board. He hit send. It felt exactly like falling, and he sucked in a breath, thinking, irrevocable. 

Otabek didn’t respond right away, like he had been. Nor were the dots dancing around to indicate life. Yuri bounced his foot on the bed, the panic rising. He’d gone too far, creeped Otabek out. He might as well have added that he listened to Goodbye Horses while fondling Otabek’s clothes and himself. 

Then, dots, and the text, _are you serious yura_

Otabek’s lack of capitalization and punctuation gave Yuri the confidence to forge ahead. Such lapses in decorum were, for Beka, the text-equivalent of heavy breathing. _Yeah, I’m fucking serious._

_fuck_

_You okay, Beka? Or are you just thinking about me whispering your name when I come? Because I do._

Yuri touched a finger to his lips, smirking, as the dots appeared and disappeared, like a mouth opening and closing. 

_Yura, I will call you tonight. Late. Can I?_

Suddenly, Yuri’s heart beat twice as hard. _You fucking better._

_Mom is here. Talk to you later._

Yuri winced, hoping that Otabek wasn’t laying there with an erection that he now tried to hide from his mother. Because Yuri was hard, and he had the luxury of rolling over and jerking himself off. It barely took a minute, he was so keyed up and imagining that it was Beka touching him, murmuring filthy words in his ear, kissing his neck. He had to bite his pillow to keep from moaning. 

He laid flat on his back after, breathing hard and wishing that Otabek was sprawled out beside him. 

 

It was almost eleven o’clock when Yuri’s phone finally buzzed. 

“Hey,” Yuri said, trying for casual, even though he was about to die. 

“Yura...are you the only one awake?” Right away, Yuri’s blood quickened, pulsing against the delicate veins of his wrist. Every single solitary doubt fizzled, and some carnal instinct took over. 

“Yeah. You got your door locked?” 

“Mm, ‘m in the bathroom, nobody will bother me in here.” 

“Good.” Yuri was already touching himself through his leggings, but before he could say anything about it, Otabek spoke. 

“I’m worse, Yura.” His voice sounded strained, and Yuri’s ears buzzed for an intense moment when he realized that Beka was probably touching himself, too. “I’ve been hard since you sent me that picture. And then, those things you said earlier...”

“That I jerk off to your sweater and say your name when I come?” 

Otabek actually fucking groaned, and Yuri couldn’t get his leggings off fast enough. 

“Yura...fuck, I wish I were there right now....”

Yuri stroked himself slowly, pleasure drunk already on the closeness of Otabek’s voice, the faint but distinct sound of him jerking off. 

“Yeah, what would you do to me, Beka?” he asked, the huskiness of his own voice unfamiliar. 

“I’d just look at you at first. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever...fuck. I’d put my mouth everywhere, Yura. Your neck, your collarbones. I’d suck you off, watching your face the whole time...”

Yuri whined, lifting his hips from the bed. “Beka...”

Otabek was panting, and through his teeth. Yuri imagined his face, his hand on his cock...

“Yeah, well, I’d suck you off, too,” Yuri said. “I’ve thought about it so many times, Beka...taking you deep, swallowing when you come...”

Otabek made a strangled sound of pleasure, and Yuri had to squeeze himself to keep from coming right then.

“Fuck, me too, Yura...I can’t wait to taste you...your cock, your come..the first time I turn you over and lick inside your ass...”

Yuri’s back arched off the bed and he was coming, his head digging into the pillow as he moaned and cursed into the phone. 

Beka was saying, “Yura, Yura,” and gasping in a way that Yuri just knew.

“Don’t stop,” Yuri said. “I want it all, Beka, ‘til you can’t stand it anymore.” He was writhing into his own touch, and at Otabek’s shocked little moan, he twisted onto the bed and spilled even more into his hand. 

He laid there for a long time, in a sea of ragged breathing, his entire body humming delicious warmth. 

Otabek’s voice pulled him to the surface. “Wish I could see you right now...”

“I’ll send you a pic,” Yuri replied. “Send me one, too.” 

Otabek made a weak noise of agreement, and Yuri worried suddenly that he’d...overexerted himself. 

“Are you alright over there?” Yuri asked. 

“This is the best I’ve ever been, Yura. You don’t even know.” 

Later, Yuri sent him a selfie from the shoulders up, his hair falling out of its bun, his cheeks flushed with color. He looked sweaty and wrecked. Then Otabek’s picture arrived. He sat topless on the corner chair, his head tipped back on the tile, showing off his sexy jawline. (One day, soon, Yuri would trace it with his tongue.) He was smirking, but the slits of his eyes glowed with the softest heat. 

Now it was Yuri’s turn to text a single broken, _fuck._

 

Over the next month, Yuri continued to send Otabek risque-but-not-x-rated pictures of himself a few times a week. A picture of himself with a towel around his waist, wet hair sticking to his cheeks. A shot of himself from behind in nothing but leggings, and the profile of his mischievous face. An utterly shameless lollipop-licking selfie. 

Each photo would prompt Otabek to initiate a sexting session, and Friday nights were suddenly reserved for phone sex. Yuri took to locking himself up in his room early on Fridays, hard the moment he got in bed, anticipating Otabek’s call. 

Predictably, the chivalrous moron would wind up apologizing for his “behavior” following these sessions. 

“That was improper of me, Yura...”

“What, telling me you’d lick up my come? Or do you mean when you said you would finger me and suck me at the same time until I screamed?” 

Yuri loved teasing him; he loved that Otabek was sweet enough to be teased, and then reassured by Yuri’s filthy compliments. (And he was more than a little relieved to discover that Otabek wasn’t much more experienced than him. Aside from a few fully clothed trysts with some hockey jerk years earlier, Otabek hadn’t been with anyone else. He was similarly relieved to learn that Yuri hadn’t done a damn thing with anyone, ever.) 

Still feeling the need to explain himself after one such session, Otabek divulged that his surgery made him “exceptionally amorous.” 

“I love that you say ‘amorous.’” 

“What would you call it, Yura?” 

“Horny as fuck? I mean, that’s what I am, for you. And I don’t have any excuse. Just your perfect hot ass, making me go into heat.” 

“Yura...” Yuri loved those long, breathless pauses when he just knew that Otabek was struggling to regain his composure. “I can’t fully blame my surgery. I’d be this bad without it. I’ve wanted you for so long, and now...”

“Now I’m yours,” Yuri said, meaning to sound sexy, but his words got drenched in sap somewhere along the way. 

Otabek hummed, but not in his usual tone. It was practically a whimper. 

“I’m yours, Beka,” he repeated. “And you’re mine, by the way. All mine.” 

“I’ve been yours since the first time I saw you on the barre.”

“You sap,” Yuri said, smiling uncontrollably. 

He was often smiling uncontrollably, even in public. Even during pre-ice stretching one unfortunate morning. 

“You are literally the cutest thing I have ever seen,” Mila remarked, absolutely preening to have caught him. Yuri shoved his phone in his pocket and scowled. He’d been looking at his latest texts from Beka. 

Beka: _Good morning, kitten._

Y: _...Kitten?_

B: _You look like a sleepy kitten in that picture._

Y: _Well, you look like a cuddly teddy bear. Next time I see you, I’ll curl up on you and fall asleep._

B: _Good. I love it when you do that, kitten._

“Was he smiling again?” Victor asked, the pout evident in his voice. “I keep missing it!” 

“I got a picture,” Mila said, and Victor loped over to look. 

“You creepy hag!” Yuri complained, but he couldn’t even summon up much ire, he was so happy. 

“Oh, how cute!” Victor gushed. 

“I sent it to Otabek,” Mila said, and that got Yuri on his feet. 

“What?! Let me see it!” 

She laughed at him, but showed him the picture. 

“Ugh, I look stupid! Thanks a lot, hag!” 

“Oh please, you look adorable! Otabek will love it.” She winked. Yuri ground his teeth, a hot vein of anger disturbing his love-sick serenity. Yes, he looked adorable in the picture. Adorably childlike. Twelve years old, tops, and a girl. Not at all like the series of photos Yuri had been sending Otabek lately. Indeed, this one would have the opposite effect. 

“Oop, he replied,” Mila said with a grin. Her eyebrows went up and she stared at Yuri with her mouth puckered over a scandalized “o.” 

“What?!” Yuri demanded. “Give me that!” She surrendered the phone rather eagerly, and Yuri stared at the text. 

Otabek: _What a beautiful picture. One of them must have caught you off guard? I hope it happens more often, kitten. I love it when you smile._

“Delete that!” Yuri shouted. His cheeks were burning, but so was the rest of his face, even his head. His entire head was about to explode. 

Mila sighed. “Why? It’s cute! Everyone already knows you two are together, it’s so obvious, Yuri.” She snatched the phone from his hands just as another text arrived. 

“What is he saying?” Yuri lunged for the phone again. Despite his height advantage, she evaded him easily. 

“He says, ‘Mila. I am sorry, I assumed that Yuri had texted me.’” She assumed a loud monotone to imitate Otabek. “Aww, I take back my earlier comments. This is literally the cutest thing I have ever seen. I can picture him so easily, sitting there with a sheepish look on his face. I had such a crush on him for a minute, you know? Then I saw the way he looked at Yuri. And yet, you two only just got together, yeah?”

Victor smiled all heart-shaped and idiotic and held one finger in the air to announce himself. “The last day we were in Almaty!” 

“Shut up, you don’t know anything!” Yuri stammered impotent with rage. All along, he’d been holding the secret of Otabek in his chest, protecting it harder than he’d realized. Now it was hauled out like a small, defenseless animal, and these idiots were cooing over how cute it was. How small. 

“We’re really happy for you, Yuri,” Mila said, with total sincerity now. She had that look on her face, the expression of an attentive, loving friend, and unfortunately, it was no act. 

“Then mind your own business!” Yuri said, marching to the boards and ripping off his skate guards. He fired off a text to Otabek. 

Y: _I’m sorry about that hag, she has no fucking life._

He shoved the phone into his hoody pocket and stepped onto the ice, skating hard. He didn’t slow down until his phone buzzed. 

B: _It was my mistake, Yura. I’m sorry. I hope you’re not too upset. I know you wanted to keep us private._

Yuri scoffed. 

Y: _Those assholes had already figured it out. You didn’t do anything wrong, shut up. I don’t care who knows, I just don’t want them talking about it. I don’t want to share._

B: _Yura. I’m yours. No matter how many people know about us, or what they think, I am yours and yours alone._

Yuri sagged against the boards, his legs tingling. 

B: _This belongs to us._

Y: _Yeah. It does._

Y: _I’m yours, too. I’m yours so fucking hard._

B: _I know. I love you._

“Yurio is smiling again!” Victor bellowed. 

“Put those phones away!” Yakov screamed. “Put them away!” 

 

Yuri won Skate America. His post-performance interviews posed the stupid predictable questions: how did last year’s shit-storm of a season influence your training/programs, how are you adjusting to your hot new body, are you boning Otabek Altin or not? (Asking about his “close friendship” with Otabek was just a lame way of putting it.) 

Yuri skyped Otabek from his hotel room the night of his win, still in his make-up -- turquoise eyeliner, eyelash wings. He couldn’t wait. 

“Did you see my Brian Joubert impersonation?” Yuri asked him. Brian Joubert had been known for parading around topless for the cameras backstage, and Yuri, in a rush to grab something he forgot, wound up doing the same thing. 

Otabek hummed and reclined into his pillows. “My whole family saw it, kitten. The camera zoomed in on you. Mehli whistled at the TV and I lived vicariously through her. All I could do was blush.” 

“Cute,” Yuri purred. 

Otabek stared at him, his tired eyes on him so steadily, Yuri felt a wave of safety. He’d never been held still be someone else, not like this. 

“Your skating, Yura...it took my breath away. Your programs...that music.” Yuri held his own breath, then, because it almost looked like Otabek had actual tears in his eyes. 

“They were for you,” Yuri said, and then blushed. He jutted his chin out, fucking off his stupid bashfulness. “I thought about you the whole time.” 

“I felt that,” Beka replied. Yuri scrutinized his face, his eyes, startled by the sadness. 

“You look upset,” Yuri said. “Did something happen today?” Not smooth by any means, but Yuri had given up on softening his edges. He didn’t know how, and Otabek loved him, anyway. 

“No,” Otabek replied. His mouth quirked up in a small smile that was somehow even sadder. “Nothing happened.” 

In retrospect, Yuri would realize the tonal emphasis of that ‘nothing.’ How the shades of sadness were the beginning. 

 

When Yuri went to skype Otabek on the night of his Cup of Russia win, Otabek wasn’t connected. It was the first time since his tenure at the hospital that he wasn’t listed as “available” on Yuri’s list of skype contacts. (Infuriatingly, Victor was.) 

Yuri slammed his laptop shut, his post-victory high veering into worry. Maybe the internet was down in the hospital, or a cable had gotten unplugged. Maybe Otabek had been moved to a different room. Maybe he’d even been sent home? 

No, and the fear overpowered Yuri with imaged of Otabek passed out on the floor, on a stretcher, in surgery, a white sheet creeping up and over his face...

Y: _Where are you?_

Yuri paced his hotel room. Outside, snow fell fat and soft, and the roads were already white. At his phone’s notification ping, he read the text with his heart in his throat. 

B: _Sorry, the internet is down. How did it go?_

Yuri sat on the bed, cold water jetting through his veins, not unlike what happened to his body before a panic attack. 

Y: _Fine._

His petulance felt very satisfying for a few seconds, but then he imagined Otabek’s coldness growing colder, and now it would be his own fault. 

B: _I’m sorry I missed it, kitten. Please tell me how you did._

Yuri sighed. 

Y: _I won, of course._

B: _Good._

B: _I know the GP events don’t matter much to you, but I am so proud of you, Yura. You never show up halfway. I can’t wait to watch the videos._

Just like that, Yuri’s anxiety vanished. He’d been stupid to worry, and he resolved not to do it again without good reason. 

 

For the next few weeks, Yuri was busier than ever preparing for the GPF. His skype-Fridays with Otabek were back on schedule, though he’d been moved to a different room, which no longer had a private bathroom. Thus, no more filthy phone calls. 

Y: _Hurry up and get out of that hospital already._

B: _I’m working on it._

But it wasn’t just the phone calls that ended. Now, when Yuri sent him some sexy photo, Otabek would reply with heart emojis or a warm, but rather chaste, compliment. No more f-bombs, no more stammering misspelled messages. 

When Yuri got on the ice to practice, his boots felt pounds heavier with fears. 

He is bored of you. 

He wants to break up. 

He met someone else. 

His father convinced him to end it. 

So many times, Yuri began to reply to Beka’s stingy messages with some bitchy retort, but he always lost his nerve. This was an alien experience for him. His nerve was usually the only resource he had left when everything else inside of him slipped away. But in the past, he had nothing left to lose. Now he had Beka, and if Beka was his by only a thread, a snide, needy, stupid remark could snap it in two. 

A part of him wanted to test this theory, and badly. The fiery core of him lurched to know the truth. Yuri couldn’t stand uncertainty, and if he was going to get hurt, he wanted to land the first blow. He could not shrink back and wait. 

But then, Otabek would randomly text him some sappy shit, or ask for a picture, or call him at an odd time, and Yuri’s ire would wane. The shadow of uncertainty, however, remained.

A week before the GPF, Yuri crawled in bed for their weekly skype session, but Otabek was unavailable. 

Y: _Hey, asshole, it’s five/eight o’clock._

Yuri scrolled through their texts from that day. 

Y: _Found something for you. [image of teddy bear dressed in leather]_

Y: _Actually, it’s for me and Potya. Until we get the real thing._

B: _I wish I could be there now._

Y: _Me too._

Y: _Well, how did the appointment go?_

Y: _Beka. Is your phone on silent again?_

Yuri had called him, and it went straight to voicemail. 

Y: _So your phone is off. Why. Don’t make me text your mother._

B: _Sorry. Busy day. Will talk later._

Yuri had thrown his own phone at that, bouncing it on the bed so hard, it jumped a foot. 

Now, reviewing his texts, he seemed like such a needy little shit. No wonder Otabek was avoiding him. This was why he never let people in. The moment they realized he needed them, and that he needed them badly, they were repulsed by him. His grandfather was the only one who stayed. 

Yuri paced his bedroom, his thoughts a sea of words. Otabek had texted, _I wish I could be there now._ Why would he say that if he obviously didn’t mean it? Because he was kind and good and didn’t want to hurt Yuri. If he wanted out, he would never say so, because he was too much of a fucking gentleman. They’d gotten each other off over the phone a few times, so Otabek probably felt like he had to marry Yuri or something, because it was the decent thing to do. 

When nearly an hour passed with no response to his text, Yuri called Otabek instead. 

“Hey, Yura,” he answered, and the mere fact of his answering filled Yuri with more rage than relief. 

“The fuck is going on?” 

Otabek’s silence was heavy, a clear cue that he was measuring his words with care. When he spoke, he sounded beyond exhausted -- empty. “I’m sorry, Yura.” 

“For what?” Yuri asked. “What is going on, Beka? And don’t give me any more shit about being ‘busy.’ I’m not an idiot.” 

“I may not be training, but I’m still busy.” His voice had never sounded so cold. Well, Yuri was fucking Russian, he was supposed to be immune to the cold. 

“Too busy to talk to me,” Yuri shot back. “If you don’t want this anymore, just fucking say so.” 

“Of course I want this. I want it more than anything.” The coldness was gone, and Yuri felt a surge of hope. 

“Then what is going on? Are you okay?” 

“Yes. I’m fine. I’m just tired. I’ve been tired, it’s the medications.” 

Yuri huffed out a breath. “Okay. What else? What about your appointment today?” Otabek had had an appointment to start a new, more rigorous physical therapy regimen. 

“It went fine.” He did not elaborate, which wasn’t exactly unusual, but given his recent pattern of silence, of avoidance...

“You’re keeping something from me. Either the appointment didn’t go well, or something else is wrong, and you’re just not telling me for some stupid reason.”

“Yuri, I don’t have the energy for your drama right now.” 

The annoyance in his voice struck some deep, wounded part of Yuri, and the rage rose up with tidal force. “You’ve been blowing me off for weeks, and now you’re going to use your mom voice because I’m pissed the fuck off? Look, don’t worry about it, I’ll stop bothering you. I hope you find someone you want to talk to, because it obviously isn’t me.” He hung up and hurled his phone against the wall. Then he did the same to the stupid teddy bear he’d bought that morning, and went face-first into his pillows, the tears immediate. 

He waited for his phone to ring, fully expected it to ring at any moment. Otabek calling back, soothing Yuri, apologizing. When this did not happen, Yuri staggered onto the floor, hoping to find his phone broken, or at least on silent. But it was fine, and nobody had called or texted. 

To say his heart sank would be inaccurate. It felt like his chest had caved in. He very nearly called Otabek back, but his pride restrained him. He wouldn’t beg. If Otabek didn’t care enough to fix this, then neither did he. 

 

Yuri cared. He’d never cared so much about anything, not even skating. He kept this information from himself, like a large, impatient man lurking in the doorway of his mind. He wouldn’t look at it, but he sensed it every second of the day. 

He cried himself to sleep. He woke up every few hours to check his phone, but there were no texts or calls. Immediately upon waking, his thoughts were clear and scant. 

You overreacted. Fix it. Now. 

Y: _I’m sorr--_

And then anger and pride would convince him to discard the message. Other thoughts would emerge, take over. 

You fucked this up. There is no coming back from this. He’s tired of you. It was inevitable. 

He dragged himself to the rink the next day despite it being his day off. He couldn’t stay home. His grandfather would see immediately, would worry. Worse, though, were his own thoughts. He had to escape himself. (Just like everyone else had to escape from him.) 

The ladies had the ice on Saturday. Mila, Yulia, Elene. Mila was nosey as fuck, but still better than Victor. 

Yuri laced up and took the ice, ignoring the squeals of welcome. He had never been gladder for his default bitch mode.

“Yuratchka, what are you doing here?” Yakov shouted. When Yuri didn’t answer, the coach yelled, “Footwork and spins only, I mean it!” 

Yuri obliged, but only because he was too exhausted to jump. He would not risk hurting himself, even if a small part of him wanted to punish Otabek with an injury caused by the stress of their argument. Not that the larger part of him was noble. He planned to perform magnificently and prove that he was just fine alone. 

(And to render Otabek breathless and repentant.) 

(Because both programs were about him.) 

When Yuri did his straight line footwork, with the climatic bleating of violin strings, every move had an extra pound of flesh; he punched the air, reveled in the snow spraying from his blades. 

_I’m losing you, losing you,_ he thought. _For weeks, I’ve been losing you._

_But I’m coming after you. I’m chasing you. I will bite down, and you won’t want me to let go._

When he finished, he crouched on the ice, tears on his cheeks, his chin. The ladies were watching him, hushed, in that awful, embarrassed way he knew better as a spectator. 

He rushed off the ice, ignoring Mila’s voice, calling his name. 

In the locker room, he unlaced his skates as fast as he could, but he wasn’t fast enough. 

“Yuri?” Mila walked in, coming towards him with terrible urgency.

“Get out of here, hag, this is the men’s locker room.” Then, the meanness fell onto his tongue. “There’s no one in here for you to fuck.” 

“No, Yuri,” she said, very soft and very firm. “No.” It was a command, and when she sat on the bench across from him, he felt his resolve quake. It’d only been a facade, anyway. (Maybe it had always been a fucking facade.) 

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, raising his head to glare at her. Concern made her eyes oceanic. Her beauty was exceptional because of her kindness. Not unlike someone else he knew. “Beka’s father would be much happier if you were the...one. The whatever. Beka would be happier, too.” He jerked his head away. Apparently, he no longer had any control over his words. Not that it mattered. A large part of him wanted to confide in Mila, to dump everything at her feet and demand feedback. 

“What happened, hon?” she asked, and her tone should have infuriated him, but he found his eyes blurring with tears instead. 

“I fucked it up, that’s what.” He hated the ragged sound of his voice; he clenched his teeth in shame. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked. He did, but he couldn’t speak; he ducked his head and dissolved into tears. “Oh, honey,” she said, and she sat next to him, her arms twining around him tight. She probably expected him to push her away, but he sagged against her, taking shuddering cry breaths and holding his arm to his nose. She smelled flowery and warm; familiar. A sister. A stupid, perfect sister. 

“I may not know what happened,” she said, stroking his hair off his face, “But I do know that that man is crazy, stupid in love with you. It’s so obvious, to everyone. Sorry, but it is. I don’t think the thing exists that would drive him away. You could probably literally drive him off a cliff, and he wouldn’t even be mad. Not that you should, Otabek is a very nice person.” 

He scoffed, but appreciated her dumb attempt at humor. “Yeah, but I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are. You’re a yowling feline, but you care about your friends. You’d probably kill anyone who hurt any one of us, even Victor.” 

He rolled his eyes. He didn’t even have the energy for even the most rudimentary of Victor insults. _I don’t have the energy for your drama, Yuri._

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t enough.” She rested her pointy chin on his head and stroked his hair down his back. Waiting, not pushing. “He’s been keeping something from me, and I called him out, and he got pissy, and I hung up on him, and he hasn’t talked to me since.” It sounded so stupid, but also horrifying. Hearing the story, even in its smallest form, made it loom before him in sharp detail. But inside, he felt slightly better. The tiniest bit. 

“When was the last time you talked?” Mila asked. 

“This was all last night.” 

“Mmm, so this was your first fight.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, playing with the zipper of his hoodie. “The first time he got mad back.” 

“Yuri, he’s going to get mad every now and again. That doesn’t mean--”

“He’s been pulling away for weeks. Calling and texting me less. Making excuses so we can’t skype. Stop trying to make me feel better, and tell me what you really think.” 

“I always tell you what I really think, Yuratchka. Okay, start from the beginning. Give me all the details.” 

Yuri barely hesitated. Actually, he couldn’t tell the story fast enough, albeit he was selective with the details. He admitted they’d been “together” only since Almaty. He mentioned the phone calls, the skypes, the texting -- the frequency and Otabek’s openness (though not the filth.) He stressed that they’d been in constant communication for years. They were best friends. 

“He realizes he made a mistake, becoming something more, but he’s just too polite to say so,” Yuri said. “If he wants out, I want him to say so. Him not saying so is worse. I’m not stupid.” 

“Oh, Yuri,” Mila said, with a rather infuriating smile. “You kind of are.” 

He grit his teeth. He had asked for this. “Well, tell me what you mean by that, hag. I’m not going to beg!” 

“Yuri. Otabek is recovering from a traumatic brain injury--”

“Yes, I know that! How could I not fucking know that?” 

She glared at him in bemusement, and he gestured for her to continue. 

“I had a cousin who had a similar injury. She was a sweetheart before, but for months after the surgery, she was a savage bitch. That is, when she wasn’t crying and begging us not to leave her alone. And then she’d kick everyone out and be a recluse for days. She’s more or less back to her old self now, except for when she gets frustrated by her short term memory issues. 

“What I’m trying to say is that Otabek’s odd behavior probably has nothing to do with you. I know you want to blame yourself for everything. I know you’re afraid. I may not know your whole story, Yuri, but I know you keep everyone at a distance. I think Otabek does, too, and this is new for you both. 

“I agree that he is probably keeping something from you, and my guess is that it’s about his recovery, specifically his therapy. It’s probably not going as well as he has let on. As an athlete, I can only imagine how devastating it must be to have such injuries. To sit a season out learning how to function again. On top of that, to be dating the top male skater in the world...well, he might feel embarrassed, jealous, not good enough.” 

“Yes, I know all this,” Yuri said, though this wasn’t entirely true. Shame burned hot on the back of his neck, but he surged on. “He doesn’t want to talk to me about it. I’ve tried, I’ve asked, but he always shuts down. I thought he trusted me more than that. He used to.” His throat closed up. He looked away, thinking about their skype conversation years earlier -- the one about Mehli and America. It was the first time in Yuri’s life that someone had confided in him. The fact that it was Otabek meant everything. He’d never felt so valued; so whole. 

“I doubt it has anything to do with him trusting you,” Mila said, lightly scratching his back. “Maybe he can’t face his own reality yet. Maybe he’s shut down to himself, too. Be patient, Yuri. Have faith. He loves you. Love him back. That’s all you can do.”

“He won’t even talk to me.” 

“Yuri. You hung up on him. He’s probably giving you space. Reach out. Say what’s in your heart.” 

Yuri made a disgusted noise, and Mila laughed. 

“You know I’m right,” she went on. “Us hags are filled with wisdom.” 

“Yeah,” Yuri said, leaning his head on her shoulder again. “You are.”

 

Yuri went home, shut himself up in his room, and texted Otabek. 

Y: _I’m sorry I freaked out last night._

He hesitated before sending, recalling Mila’s nauseating advice. What was in his wretched heart? He didn’t have to think about it long. 

Y: _I love you is all. I don’t want to lose you, Beka._

He hit send, and stared at the phone, heart thundering. 

B: _I love you too, Yura. I’m sorry about last night._

The relief was palpable. It literally felt like an ocean liner had been lifted from his body. 

Y: _You can tell me anything. If you didn’t know that already, well, I’m spelling it out now. You could murder someone and I wouldn’t judge. I’d come over and take care of the body._

B: _I know that, Yura._

B: _Please don’t become an accessory to murder, Yura._

Yuri grinned and flopped onto his back, texting with his old rapid fire zeal. 

 

Yuri won the GPF. Seung Gil got silver and Phichit got bronze, and the two were caught making out in the back stairwell by a flock of ice sweepers leading a camera crew on a tour of the building. When Yuri was told about this by a breathless interviewer, he just tsked and said, “It’s about time.” 

When he got back stage, he had a text from Otabek. 

B: _Congratulations kitten. You were amazing. I won’t be available to skype. I’m sorry, these meds are knocking me out. Please celebrate, Yura. You have earned it._

Yuri curled his lip into a scowl and ordered himself to take deep breaths. He hadn’t skyped with Beka in almost a month. Again, he found himself drawn to the dark places in his mind. 

Despite Otabek “knowing” that he could tell Yuri anything, he hadn’t told him shit. No details about his appointments, nothing involved about his recovery, his therapy. Yuri had been insanely busy preparing for the final, but now he had some time to breathe before Nationals. Not a lot of time, but some. 

Y: _I hate celebrating. I want you, Altin. I want your face. The next time you are free, skype me. I don’t care what time it is, and I will wait all day._

There was no immediate reply, nor any an hour later. So Yuri went to the banquet, resolving to amuse himself by watching people tease Seung Gil about his Phichit fetish. But the bastards weren’t even there. They were probably off fucking, which was both gross and unfair. 

Mila took Yuri under her wing, and he taught her and Sara how to do a crown dutch braid. 

 

Yuri woke up to the phone ringing. It was still dark, and he caught a glance at the clock when he flailed in the direction of his phone: 5:30 a.m. It was Otabek. 

“Hey, Beka,” he said, sitting up fast. “You okay?” 

“Yura.” 

“Beka? You sound weird, do you have a cold? What’s going on?” 

“I can’t do this to you anymore, Yura.” 

“What, do what?” Suddenly, Yuri couldn’t feel his body. 

“You’ll find someone else. I was always in the way. People just assumed--”

“What the fuck?! No, you are not doing this, Beka, you don’t get to just do this!” 

“I will never get better.” Yuri was on his feet now, and this made him freeze. Otabek’s voice had no fluctuation, no temperature, nothing. 

“Tell me what you mean,” Yuri ordered. “What is going on?” 

“I’ve been selfish. I know you would never leave me, Yura. No matter how bad...but I don’t want this anymore. If I can’t be me, then I don’t want it. I don’t want you to want it, either. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright. I’ll just be alone. I love you, Yura. You are it for me. The only one. But you will have others.” 

“No I won’t, you bastard.” Yuri’s voice was raw through his tears. “You don’t know shit. And this isn’t over. Are you listening to me?” 

“Goodbye, Yura.” 

“No! Wait, Beka!” But the line was dead. 

Yuri called back, but there was no answer. 

Y: _You don’t get to do that and then not hear what I have to say._

Y: _I deserve more information. I deserve all of the fucking information._

Y: _I’m not giving up. I’m fighting for us. Even if I have to fight you._

The last text bounced back and Yuri wilted onto the bed, his chest hurting like he’d been hit. Otabek had fucking blocked him. 

With shaking hands, Yuri scrolled to Mila’s last text. 

Y: _When you wake up, send me a text._

Hag: _I’m awake. What’s up? You okay?_

Yuri collapsed into fresh tears. 

Y: _Otabek just broke up with me._

Hag: _I’m on my way over._

Y: _K._

Sobbing quietly, Yuri busied himself by replacing “Hag” with “Mila” in his list of contacts. 

 

Yuri was in the fetal position on top of his covers, Mila curled up behind him, rubbing his back. He’d told her everything and sobbed like he was dying. Now, he just breathed through his mouth and stared half awake at the awful hotel room curtains. He wanted his own bed. Potya. His grandpa. 

(That was the end of his list, now.) 

Mila hadn’t offered advice or platitudes or false hope. She’d just said she was sorry, many times. He’d managed to cough out that it wasn’t her fault. She’d just been wrong. (He didn’t say that last part, though, he couldn’t stand it.) 

His ringtone bolted him to full alertness, and he grabbed his phone, his heart leaping with stupid hope. He squinted at the name. 

“It’s his sister,” Yuri said, answering the call. “Mehli?” 

“Yuri. Did something happen?” 

His throat constricted to the width of a pin. 

“Yeah, he dumped me.” 

“What?!” She muttered a long line of Kazakh, the tone profane in any language. “Yuri. I just got here for winter break, and he’s...he refuses to see me. He threw our parents out. Apparently, he said certain things to our father...well. My mother says that he’s been acting out since he fell down last month. Have you noticed?” At his silence, she said, “I’m sorry, this is probably the last thing you want to talk about right now...” 

“No, this is exactly...he fell down? What do you mean?” 

“...he didn’t tell you?” 

“No, he stopped telling me fu--he stopped telling me anything.” 

She sighed loudly. “Of course he did. Yuri, last month he fell down on his way to the cafeteria. He wasn’t supposed to be walking around unassisted, but he never listens. He fell down and broke his left kneecap, broke his nose, bruised up his face. I’m sure he looked terrible. What excuse did he give?” 

Realization dawned on him. “That he was always too tired to skype.” 

More profane Kazakh. 

Yuri went on. “He said...this morning, he said that he wasn’t ever going to get better. And that’s why...” He swallowed. “So is that true?”

“Of course not!” Mehli erupted. “He is stupid!” Her voice was frail, however, so near breaking, more tears welled in Yuri’s eyes. She took a deep breath. “I know they told us to expect mood swings. They say that this is not uncommon. I’ve been studying it myself. The anger, the outbursts. It’s like he’s fourteen again, but worse. He has broken things, yelled at people, refused to eat. He’ll sleep for hours, and then stare at the wall for hours more, not engaging in conversation. My mom has kept me up to date. She is beside herself.” 

“But what is his prognosis?” Yuri asked. 

“His brain is healing fine, so far. They are ‘optimistic.’ But the recovery is slow. Too slow, for our boy. They still don’t know...his balance may be permanently damaged. So skating...he will have additional challenges.” 

“He can overcome any fucking challenges.” He blushed and muttered, “Sorry.” 

“Sweet child, if you knew what I’d said in Kazakh earlier! Anyway, you are right. But Otabek is depressed. That’s the real issue here, and I hope they listen to me. He needs medication. And it’s not my place, but Yuri, he needs you. Please don’t give up on my idiot brother. He adores you. He is not in his right mind. You’re going to have to take charge. No offense, but I don’t think that will be much of a stretch.” 

“Mmm hmm, I’ll get the first flight out.” He was already up, stuffing his clothes into his suitcase, as Mila looked on, mystified. 

“I won’t lie, Yuri. I was hoping you’d say that.” 

“I’ll text you my arrival time. Don’t tell him I’m coming, he’ll find some way to leave the country.” 

She sighed. “I’ll pick you up from the airport. Thank you, Yuri.” 

They said goodbye, and Yuri faced Mila, who flailed her arms for an explanation. 

“I’ll tell you on the way to the lobby.” 

 

Yuri called Yakov from the taxi, and the coach was none too pleased to hear that Yuri would be skipping his exhibition. His reaction wasn’t surprising, but his solution was: “Move the boy up here. There are fine rehabilitation centers, he speaks Russian, I will coach him, he can live with you. Then you won’t have to travel far for every crisis.” 

The very idea stole Yuri’s breath, but luckily Yakov wasn’t the sort to wait for a reply. “No longer than a week!” was his parting shot. 

Yuri was nervous, but at least he was no longer in the throes of devastation. He had hope, yes, but more than that, resolve. Fucking nerve. He would not let Otabek get rid of him, not if he wasn’t in his right mind. Once he was better, if it was still what he wanted...

Yuri wouldn’t think about that right now. 

When he arrived at the Almaty airport, Mehli was waiting for him. She smiled and hugged him for several beats longer than the typical cursory hug. 

“Any updates?” Yuri asked. 

“No,” she replied, steering him through the airport. “He is sleeping. Yuri, everyone is so glad you’re here. My mother, she’s convinced you woke him up from the coma. So she’s a little...she thinks you’re going to make him better. She doesn’t know all the details. I’m just warning you, it will be stressful. I told her not to put so much pressure on you. But she will, anyway. I’m hopeful, but I’m also realistic. We know how he is.” 

Yuri was touched by the familiarity of her words. Like Yuri was a member of a secret Otabek club, and she was the only other member. Like they’d been doing this for years. 

Otabek now stayed in a different wing of the hospital, a quieter, less depressing place with more windows. Mehli explained that her parents were at work, though her mother only had a half day, and would join them in the early afternoon. 

Thus, when Yuri arrived at Otabek’s door, there was no one to “warm him up” with some emotionally charged greeting. Mehli had retreated to the waiting room. It was just Yuri and the stupid door. He held his fist up and thought, Blocked. He knocked sharply. When there wasn’t an answer, he barged in. 

Curled up on the bed, facing the opposite wall, was Otabek. At the sight of him in his wrinkled blue scrubs, black t-shirt and bare feet, Yuri’s anger drained away. He took a few steps closer. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room in a wintry gray pallor. Otabek shifted his legs and Yuri froze. Otabek mumbled something in Kazakh. Yuri only understood one word: _please._

“It’s me, Beka,” he said, though at the first syllable, Otabek shot up and looked at him. 

“Yura?” Shock warred with the exhaustion on his face -- and the bruises. As if remembering, he turned away, holding his eyes shut. “My sister called you. She knew you would come. You shouldn’t have come.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Yuri said. He approached the bed, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. 

“I already told you,” Otabek said, and his voice tremored on the brink of savage. “It’s over.” 

“Yeah, I remember,” Yuri replied. “You talked. Now you get to listen.”

“You can’t change my mind about this.” There it was again, the flatness in his voice. The deadness. Fear spread across Yuri’s chest. 

“I think you’re out of your fucking mind, so fuck that.” 

Otabek suddenly pushed onto his feet, and swatted at the tray by his bed, sending it flying against the wall. “Yes, I am brain damaged, Yuri! I will not get better, and that’s the point.” He was on Yuri fast, despite his limping. “Get out.” His eyes were black, and as Yuri shot his arms out to twist from Otabek’s grasp, he saw the despair. 

“No!” 

“Get out!” 

“I will never fucking leave you, you asshole!” He had Otabek by his wrists now, had him close, and saw the moment when his resolve broke. Otabek pulled, and Yuri let him go. He staggered back to his bed and sat down, burying his face in his hands. 

“Beka...” Yuri took a few steps and then froze at the long, shuddering breath that came from behind Otabek’s hands. Yuri’s eyes immediately filled with tears. He sat down beside Otabek and put both arms around him, kissed his shoulder, scratched one hand down his back, each touch feeling too small. 

“I love you,” Yuri said into his ear. “No matter what, I love you, and I’ll always want you.” 

Otabek partially emerged from his hands, his cheeks wet with tears. “But what if I’m not me anymore,” he gritted out. 

“You’re you,” Yuri said. “I see you. I feel you, you’re right fucking here.” He brushed one hand through Otabek’s hair, then held it over his heart. It was the corniest thing he’d ever done, but it was truth in its purest form.

Otabek hid his face, but he let Yuri hold him as he cried. Gradually, he surrendered more of his body weight against Yuri’s until his head was on Yuri’s shoulder. He dropped his hands and whispered, “I’m fucking _scared_.”

“I know.” Yuri wasn’t going to promise that everything would be okay. He would only give him the words that were his, and that were true. “I’m here, Beka. I’m staying. I love you, and I’m fucking staying.” 

Otabek didn’t say anything, but he let Yuri hold him, and stroke his hair and kiss his forehead. Yuri kept his mouth there and closed his eyes. For his entire life, he’d been gathering things into his arms to sate his soul hunger. Medals, praise, fame, scores, perfection. It was easy to blame his absent parents and point out his anger and conclude that he needed love. To receive love, to allow himself to surrender. He’d feared this to be true and now here he was on the other side, giving. Trusted. Needed. Never in his life had he been someone’s soft place to fall. He didn’t think it was possible; that he would ever be chosen for such a thing, especially by someone as strong as Otabek. 

He kissed Otabek’s forehead again and then his closed eye. Slowly, Otabek’s arms moved, one hand grabbing a fistful of Yuri’s sweater, the other one twining in his hair. Yuri’s blood sang at the contact, warmth gathering in his belly, his knee caps, as Otabek’s fingertips rushed across his scalp. 

“I’m sorry,” Otabek said. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Stop it,” Yuri said. 

“No...you’re the most important person in my life. I’ll make this up to you. I promise, Yura.” 

Yuri’s nose burned with the threat of more tears. “Just...don’t leave me, Beka.” His voice broke, and suddenly Otabek was pulling him into his arms. 

“I won’t. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, but I don’t ever want to hurt you. That’s why -- I was trying to spare you. I was letting you go. But I can’t. I’m a selfish man, Yura.”

“Good, because I don’t want to go, you idiot.” 

“You should.” His voice was very calm and reasonable, which only pissed Yuri off more. “I’m not fishing for reassurance. I am a wreck. There are so many people out there who are in a better place, who are good, who would be good for you--”

“Beka.” Yuri held him by the shoulders and gave him his most vicious look. “Don’t ever say shit like that to me again. Just the idea of being with someone else makes me want to puke. I don’t want anyone else.” Before saying the next words, he bit the inside of his cheek hard. “Now, if you actually do want out of this, and are just being nice and doing the right thing or whatever, just fucking me tell me, no more of this ‘it isn’t you, it’s me’ shit.” 

Otabek was shaking his head, harder and with an ever increasing look of horror. “I could never not want you, Yura.” Something in Yuri’s face must have looked woefully unconvinced, because Otabek’s expression grew even more distraught. “I’m so sorry, Yura. I’ve really...” He swallowed hard. “I’ve fucked this up.” 

“Yeah, well, you have time to fix it,” Yuri said. “You can begin groveling at any time.” 

Otabek bit his lip over a sad smile, and Yuri’s heart lurched. “I will. You’ve flown to Kazakhstan twice for me, without being asked. I feel so small, so -- I’m not trying to incite pity, I just want you to understand.” 

“That you feel unworthy. I know a thing or two about feeling unworthy, Altin. If our roles were reversed, if I were the one with the busted head, you would be a flawless fucking prince, and I’d be a raging monster. You’d be saying and doing everything right, and I’d probably react like a total bitch to every kind gesture. So, let’s skip the rest of this, okay? We’re both idiots who feel unworthy of each other’s awesome flawlessness. We’re both wrong. Especially you.” 

“Yura...” Otabek put one hand on his cheek and then leaned in to kiss the side of his head. “I love you.” 

Yuri wrapped his arms around him, tightly and then loosening with a start. “Shit, did I hurt you?” 

“No,” Otabek said, smoothing his hair back, and they moved at the same time, deciding, lips brushing. Yuri felt the kiss in his wrists, in the pulse point at his neck. When they parted, Otabek was all but holding him up.

“I’ll never get used to this,” Yuri slurred, as Otabek kissed his jaw. 

“I’ll never stop.” 

Yuri stared at him through the slits of his eyes. “No. You won’t.” 

They sat together like that for awhile, breathing in each other, talking little, until the inevitable knock on the door. Otabek took Yuri’s hand and sat up straight and stoic. “Come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Works Cited: 
> 
> Brian Joubert strutting around topless: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kt3n6NT1hSc


	7. The distance between faith and fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Yuri in Almaty for a few weeks, Otabek works to earn back his trust and confront his own inner demons. Also on the menu: new years eve, and the presence of Otabek's large family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: A brief scene of mild smut. Fully clothed. Tame enough to air on ABC prime time television. 
> 
> I used ideas from the Kazakhstan book for this chapter, namely the New Years traditions and toasts. I probably got everything else wrong. (I have never left the states, and know nothing.)

Mehli was basically Otabek’s fairy godmother. She told him so, and he was inclined to agree. She brought Yuri to him, but then she stole him for hours at a time, the two of them shopping and eating and (Otabek later confirmed) talking about Otabek. She predictably hauled out the photo albums and home videos. 

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” she told him, on the third day of Yuri’s visit. “He loved looking at them. No matter how ordinary the photo, or boring the family trip, or even if you were making a stupid face, and remember your fifth grade photo? Glasses, braces? He had hearts flying out of his eyes the whole time. He thinks you’re perfect. You better not chase him away again. I mean it.” 

He just shook his head. She wasn’t scolding him; she wasn’t that predictable. She was feeling him out with coarseness. 

“I wish he had a sister like you,” he said. “He needed it his whole life. Someone like you.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, the many ways I could respond to that! Let’s try them all. He has a sister like me now, because I’m going to keep him. He has you. He has a pretty cool grandpa. He has a large skating family. But I digress. You’re right. From what I can cobble together, his childhood was garbage, and his parents are assholes.” 

Otabek assented with a nod. He didn’t know much about Yuri’s parents, but neither did Yuri. They were divorced, both remarried, both busy with new families. His mother was rich now, and Yuri had a trust fund, but he rarely touched it. He wanted to make his own way. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said, the guilt crushing him like it so often did. “I was trying not to hurt him.” 

“I know,” Mehli said. “He knows that, too. Intellectually. It’s just going to take time.” 

She sat on the end of his bed, her hand just beside his foot. They didn’t much touch each other, his family. They were more likely to embrace others, to adjust to their norms. But she’d brought him a slice of pie she’d baked. 

“I love you, Mehli,” he said. 

She raised her eyebrows, color dusting her cheeks. 

“I don’t tell you enough,” he went on. 

“Not with words, maybe,” she said, tugging at a loose thread in the blanket. 

“You don’t have to say it back.” 

“Yes I do! It’s just weird! Of course I love you.” 

“I know you do.” 

She made a noise of exasperation. “I’m texting Yuri. Telling him you’re acting all lovey dovey. Maybe he’ll leave practice early.” 

 

The day after Yuri arrived, Otabek finally agreed to see The Shrink. It wasn’t difficult after witnessing the hurt on Yuri’s face, and the hurt that still braced his posture -- like he was always awaiting a blow. 

“You were trying to protect him,” the tiny woman repeated. “From what?” 

“From me. I couldn’t control my anger anymore. I was lashing out at everyone. Because I’m not getting better.” He’d decided to just be honest, against his better judgment. The faster he spat everything out, the faster it would be over. 

“You were protecting him from your condition? Because you thought you wouldn’t get better?” 

“He would have stayed with me, no matter how bad I got. He’s loyal. Too loyal. He would have given up a better life. With someone else.” 

A pause. “Are you sure he would have stayed?” 

His stomach dropped. “Yes.” 

“You weren’t afraid that he would leave you? You weren’t maybe leaving him first, to protect yourself from that pain?” 

“He wouldn’t have left me. He’s not like that, and I’m not like that.” Otabek wasn’t losing his temper, but he was standing up, and he was looking at the door. 

“Please sit down, Otabek.” 

“I wouldn’t leave Yuri to protect myself. You don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m not listening to this shit.” 

He left. 

 

Otabek took out his aggression in PT and met Yuri for lunch in the cafeteria. Yuri was already there, standing against the wall, studying his phone. He was in leggings and Otabek’s charcoal hoody, his hair pulled back carelessly. He was majestic, and entirely too much for his ordinary surroundings. 

And then he saw Otabek and lit up and Otabek was slammed with two immediate thoughts: _I don’t deserve him; I’d die if I lost him._

They didn’t touch; they didn’t want to attract attention, and thus they sat down across from each other with uncertainty, like they’d forgotten how to interact without touch. 

“So...how was your day?” Yuri asked, and there was that new tension to his limbs, on his face, more guarded than fierce. Because he was so afraid, now, of saying something wrong. 

Otabek took a breath. He owed Yuri honesty. It was such a small thing. “I walked out on the therapist.” 

“You walked out?” He was too skittish to outright ask why, but obviously...

“She made assumptions about me that weren’t true,” he said. Or were, an ominous voice intoned. He shook his head and searched his mind for something that was true, something he could give without reserve. “Yura, a few years back, when we were in Canada...when I DJ’ed at that club...” 

“Hmm, yeah, the night I bombed the grand prix final,” Yuri said with a smirk. “Do continue.” 

Otabek sighed. “That night, you fell asleep at the table, and some guy walked up to you. He was...looming over you. I lost it, Yura. I slammed him against a wall. Threatened to break his arm.” 

“No you fucking did not,” Yuri said, looking starry eyed and entirely too pleased. 

“Yuri, he was just leaving you his number. But I was so angry at the very idea of some...perverted older man wanting you. And this guy, he wasn’t even that old.” 

Yuri rolled his eyes and sagged back in his chair. “Okay, I see where this is going. Beka, you weren’t and aren’t some ‘perverted older man.’ And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter, because I’ve been wanting your hands on me for years.” 

Otabek’s mind instantly clouded from the admission. 

“If I’d known you’d done that,” Yuri went on, his eyes turning dark, “I’d have made a move so much sooner. Didn’t someone see you, one of those drunken idiots?” 

Otabek opened his mouth, struggling to remember. “Seung Gil Lee.” 

Yuri scoffed. “Well, no wonder, that silent bastard. Did you hear, by the way that him and Phichit were caught making out after the GPF? There are pictures all over the internet now, weirdos keep posting gifs on tumblr. Disgusting.” 

Otabek allowed himself to smile. “Good for them.” 

“Ugh, anyway, what was your point, or did you have one? Other than to put a sexy image in my head.” Yuri punctuated the sentence by popping a tortilla chip in his mouth, and Otabek was immeasurably relieved to see him relaxing. 

“I’ve wanted you so long. In secret. Because I knew it wasn’t right. You were so young.” 

“Beka--”

“No, I know. I know, now, how you felt. I’d hoped that you felt the same, and was scared that you did, because then...” He glanced into his peripherals. There were so many people, too close. “Part of the reason why I pushed you away was because I still felt that guilt. Suddenly I was getting everything I wanted. I didn’t deserve it. Especially if I couldn’t give you everything you could give me. If I wasn’t the same person anymore. Mentally or physically.” He raked his fingers through his hair, his scars burning. This was why he didn’t talk much; better to be perceived as mysterious than flummoxed. 

“Mentally or physically,” Yuri repeated. He stared at Otabek, inscrutable and unflinching, and Otabek felt more like himself than he had for weeks, to be caught in those eyes. “I call bullshit, Altin. First of all, you’re going to get better. I’m not just saying that, like some deluded asshole. You broke some bones. You bashed your head. It’s all healing. Everyone says so. You know what I think your real problem is?” He leaned across the table. “You don’t like looking weak. You don’t like needing help. I should know. Your mom says we’re a lot alike, and yeah, we are. You didn’t want me to see you all busted up, you didn’t want to tell me you were having setbacks, because you were afraid you’d seem weak, and I wouldn’t want you anymore.” 

“I wouldn’t think that about you,” Otabek said. He was gripping the edge of the table. Had the shrink spoken to Yuri? Played him a damn tape? 

“You don’t have to think it, you only had to be afraid of it. There’s a difference, you know. Fear is an asshole like that. You remember when Mila sent you that dumb picture of me, smiling like an idiot? I was afraid you would think I looked too young and cute and wouldn’t want me anymore. That doesn’t mean I think you’re some fickle shithead. I was just afraid you’d leave me.” He slumped back in his chair and looked off to the side, but Otabek could still see the hurt on his face. 

“Yura--”

“If our roles were reversed,” Yuri went on, aiming another fierce look his way, “And you were winning gold medals while I was fighting just to walk again, I’d be pissed off, too. I might not want to talk you about your victories, or watch your performances. No, I definitely wouldn’t. I’d be a total dick. I’m not even saying that’s what you’ve been feeling. I just wouldn’t hold it against you.” 

“I’m always happy for you, Yura. I’m always proud. Your programs..” He wasn’t going to say it, but then Yuri did. 

“They’re about you. That doesn’t mean you’re required to like them, and only feel--”

“But I do. And that’s the truth.” He took Yuri’s hand in both of his, and kissed his knuckles. Fuck anyone who saw. “Watching you skate is everything. I feel like I’m out there with you.” 

“You are,” Yuri said, and his face was angry. “It’s the corniest shit in the world, but you are. I could not skate those programs if you weren’t in my life. I’m fucking mediocre without you. Don’t forget it, Altin.” 

“You’ve never been mediocre a day in your life.” 

Yuri’s eyes flickered across his face, and Otabek was so frustrated that they were in public.

“Well,” Yuri said, starting to smirk. “That’s true.” 

Otabek smiled and stroked his thumbs down Yuri’s long fingers. 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Yuri asked. “I guess I have to do everything around here.” He stood up. 

“Yura --”

Yuri swiveled around with a glare. “Are you going to let me help you or not?” 

Otabek sighed and held up his hands in mock surrender. Yuri walked away, purposefully swinging his hips. Otabek shook his head but he didn’t look away. He wasn’t a complete idiot. 

 

Otabek went back to The Shrink the next day. 

“I’m sorry for the way I acted,” he said, and of course she thanked him for apologizing, encouraged him to express his emotions, promised he was safe. 

“The only thing I need you to be is honest,” she said. 

“In that case, you should know that I’m only here for him. For Yuri. I don’t ever want to hurt him again.” 

“You’re going to hurt him,” she said. “We’re human. We are fallible. We hurt and we get hurt, especially when we go out of our way to avoid it. But we can always strive to take care of each other better by communicating well, and that means being honest.” 

“So I’m lying.” 

“No. I suspect you might be avoiding. I want you to write a list.” 

And so the stupid “exercises” began. Otabek dutifully took a pen to paper and headed it, “The things I fear the most.” This time, he didn’t storm out. 

 

Otabek didn’t get any alone time with Yuri until that night, when they ate dinner in his room. They sat side by side in the uncomfortable, mass produced hospital chairs, Otabek’s braced knee propped up on a stool. He was sick of living in the bed, and Yuri didn’t argue, though he did insist upon elevating Otabek’s legs with pillows and fetching things for him.. 

“I like taking care of you,” Yuri said. “You’d better enjoy it, because once we live together, you’ll be waiting on me hand and foot.” He flushed and shot Otabek a panicked look. “I mean, not that--”

“You’ve thought about us living together, Yura?” Otabek thought perhaps he should be lying down after all. 

“Yeah, so? Won’t we?” He was sitting like a pretzel, glaring at Otabek in defiance, but Otabek could see the fear shining brighter. 

“I want that more than anything. To wake up every morning, next to you.” He held Yuri’s face gently, but Yuri pushed out of his hands and kissed him. The angle was less than ideal, and Yuri placed his hands on him so gently, but his lips...Otabek was still rendered stupid by their softness. 

“This would be easier if I was in your lap,” Yuri murmured. 

“Then get over here.” Otabek suddenly had a vision of himself with his hands full of Yuri Plisetsky’s ass and tugged on Yuri’s wrist as encouragement. Yuri snorted. 

“No way, Altin, someone could, and would, come barging in here, and besides, I must handle you with care.” He purred that last bit, and Otabek nearly groaned. “By the way, you haven’t told me the story yet.” He gestured to Otabek’s knee and took a bite of chicken. 

All traces of arousal sapped from Otabek’s body. He sighed. “You already know it, Yura. I walked too far without crutches. I took a hard fall.” He palmed his knee, cracked but “healing nicely.” “I was supposed to leave the hospital that week. After that...they kept me longer.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yuri asked, shock slackening his face. “You never even hinted that you were going to be released soon.” 

“I wanted to surprise you. I had this whole stupid fantasy where I flew to Russia, showed up at your door.” _Carried you to your room, ravished you..._ “And then it was gone. They were worried that I’d injured my brain again. I fell because of equilibrium, not because of my leg. No one understood...” The tidal wave of emotion was waiting, and so was Yuri, his eyes stunningly compassionate. 

“Tell me, Beka.” 

“The doctors don’t know what I know about my body, or what I’m experiencing. They can explain it from a scientific perspective, but to live it? My skating...I have excelled because of my work ethic. I willed myself to land every jump for the first time. Suddenly, I can’t will my body to do anything anymore. They keep saying I should make a full recovery. Should. But what if I don’t. What if I can’t? If my will isn’t enough to sustain me, then I don’t know who I am anymore.” He bit down hard on his cheek and looked away. 

“Beka.” Yuri nuzzled his shoulder, mouthed at his jaw. “Fuck. I’m not going to tell you not to feel that way. But I could write a book about who you are to me, and it’s more than your bullheaded will. So maybe your will won’t get you out of this mess. Maybe you’ll have to tap into your other qualities. Like your patience and wisdom. And faith. As dumb as that is, I know.” 

Otabek turned enough to kiss his hair. He wasn’t ready to compromise with himself, or his treacherous body. But maybe his will had a roll to play yet -- he could will himself to be patient and wise, for Yuri’s sake. 

“I’m not trying to make everything okay, Beka,” Yuri murmured. “This sucks. What you’re going through is bullshit. I’m just...glad that you’re telling me about it.” His voice trailed off on a shy note and Otabek kissed his head again. It occurred to him, with savage clarity, that he was lucky, so lucky, and needed to quit bitching. 

 

The things I fear the most:  
\- Losing Yuri  
\- Losing mom, Mehli  
\- Never returning to normal  
\- Never skating again

It had taken him a half an hour just staring at the page to work up the courage to write that last line, but the shrink only wanted to talk about Otabek’s father. 

“He’s not included with your mother and sister,” she said. 

“You asked me what I feared the most. To include him would be dishonest.” 

“Why? You aren’t afraid of losing him?” 

He bit down his many retorts, namely, _I already have._ “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Okay. I’ll let it go. For now.” 

That struck him as a threat, and he really didn’t like it. But they moved on to the things he was ready for -- the things that mattered. 

 

In PT, Otabek pushed himself to the limit, churned out as many reps on the various apparatuses that he was allowed, and in his mind repeated words like “patience” and “wisdom” and “Yuri” when his brute efforts weren’t enough to perform one of the fine-motor-skill assessments. 

The doctor brought up the subject of “going home” again, and this time Otabek decided to tell Yuri. Mehli took him to the rink to watch Yuri practice, and Otabek got to just stare at him without Yuri knowing he was there. He was at the cool-off stage, skating in languid circles and spirals, streaks of blond on his cheeks from where his hair had fallen loose. 

“If I were a meaner person,” Mehli began, “I’d take a picture of your face right now and post it on twitter with some embarrassing caption about how in love you are.” 

Otabek hummed. “That reminds me. Yura did mention going public. Through social media. An announcement.” 

“Then you’d better remind him. Don’t worry, grandma already figured it out.” 

He looked at her in alarm. “What?” 

She cackled. “She asked me if Yuri was your boyfriend. I told her she’d have to ask you. Then she said she’d always known you were ‘too sweet’ to be straight. She’s okay with it. You know grandma. She’s on tumblr and everything.” 

Otabek glared at her. He really didn’t want to think about his grandmother, or anyone else from his family. After all, not all of them would be understanding. 

“Beka!” Yuri was shouting from the boards and grinned when Otabek found him. He left the ice, and Otabek rushed (as much as he could) to meet him, gathering him up in his arms and breathing in the salt and soap and snow. 

“You okay?” Yuri asked, palming the back of his head gently. 

“Mmm. I brought you lunch. Locker room?” 

 

Otabek told him about his impending release -- and the conditions. He’d need to continue extensive PT for a few months, most likely at a facility of some kind. But it would be more private, less crowded, less depressing. It was time. It had been a month since his fall, and his brain scans remained normal. 

“I’ll be out within the week,” he concluded. 

Yuri stared at him, his expression oddly sober. 

“You’ll be going home? This week?” 

Otabek nodded. “I’ll go to a clinic daily for PT, but I’ll be living at home. With my parents, that is.” His apartment was currently sublet to a young skater his coach was working with. He knew it would still be awhile before he could live alone again...

Yuri was hunched over, unlacing his skates, his ponytail shielding his face. But Otabek could still tell. The precise tension in his shoulders, the rigidity of his profile.

“Yura?” he prompted, placing a hand on his back. 

“Just happy,” Yuri said, glancing at him. His eyes were greener than ever with unshed tears. Otabek tugged on his shoulders. 

“Come here.” 

Yuri pushed into his arms at once; he was trembling. Otabek laid his cheek on his head and hugged him tight. They didn’t speak, but Otabek could feel the depth of Yuri’s emotion -- his racing heart, the gentle fists he made of Otabek’s sweater. 

“What rehab facility will you go to?” Yuri asked. 

“I don’t know yet. It’ll be in Almaty, I’m sure.” 

“Or, it could be in Saint Petersburg,” Yuri murmured. “Maybe with Dr. Weiss, a world renowned physical therapist for athletes recovering from traumatic brain injury.” 

Otabek was silent as he processed Yuri’s words. “Saint Petersburg,” he repeated. 

“Yeah, you know, you’d live at the facility until you met your recovery goals, and then we’d move in together. Yakov would take you on as a student.” 

A slightly hysterical joy unfurled in Otabek’s stomach. “This is a fact, Yura?” 

“It was his damn idea, so yeah.” 

Otabek stroked Yuri’s ponytail between his middle and index finger. A tender heat was filling him up, bone by bone. Only days earlier, he’d given up; he’d lost all hope. Now, everything he could have wanted was laid out before him for the taking. 

“I mean, it’s your decision,” Yuri said, and Otabek could practically feel him going cold. “Your whole life is here, this is--”

“I want to be where you are,” Otabek said. He ducked his head to meet Yuri’s eyes, and the frail hope that seared back at him stole his breath. “You’re my future. You have such faith in me. I hadn’t even dared to hope...such things. I wouldn’t be leaving this week if it weren’t for you.” 

“You’re so fucking sappy,” Yuri muttered, tucking his face in his shoulder again. Otabek breathed out a laugh and held Yuri flush against his chest, which was about to explode. 

 

Over the next few days, Otabek prepared to leave the hospital, and Yuri spent time on the ice. When Otabek proposed his Russian relocation to his recovery team, the responses were varied, to say the least. The doctors mostly approved, thinking a change of scenery would be good for his health. The Shrink expressed cautious encouragement, mired in concerns about Otabek’s “abandonment issues.” She forced him to consider everything that could happen -- bad and good. 

“If it doesn’t work out between you and Yuri, or with the new coach or new PT, what are your back ups?” 

He had to all but impale the couch with his fingernails to keep from storming out. 

Irritatingly, his PTs had similar “concerns,” though what they really wanted was his business. 

Then, there was his mother. 

“Couldn’t Yuri move to Almaty?” she asked. “You already have an apartment here, and the family loves Yuri.” 

“Yuri has given enough,” Otabek said. “He has dropped everything twice and flown here from Russia to support me. And the rehab facility in Saint Petersburg is superior to any in Almaty. Coach wants me to work with Yakov, which in itself is the opportunity of a lifetime.” 

“You are not going for a coach or a doctor, you are going for Yuri,” she said. They were at a small table in the hospital cafe, and she reached across the surface to take his hand. Her eyes were warm -- and knowing. “When I realized that you were in love with Yuri Plisetsky, I was worried. He seemed so mean. I was afraid he was going to hurt you. Then he rushed to be by your side after your accident, and it brought me such comfort to see how much he loved you, too. That boy adores you. But then...your recovery has been so difficult. When you began to push everyone away, I had hoped that Yuri would be the exception. But he wasn’t. You should not go if you’re not ready to give your whole heart to him.” 

“I am,” Otabek said. “I have.” He was actually blushing, and had to turn away. He had never spoken of such things with his mother; he wasn’t even “out.” And here she was, lecturing about his love life so nonchalantly. 

“Yes, you have,” she said softly. “I can see that. It is probably a bit frightening for you. You’re so like your father. You don’t like--”

“I’m not like him,” Otabek interrupted. “I’m like you.” 

She smiled at him, but her eyes were troubled. “I wish you two would talk. Truly talk.” 

“We have talked.” Otabek didn’t have to reach far to recall that conversation; it was always there, just beyond his immediate thoughts. His father, visiting him not an hour after he’d ended things with Yuri. He’d refused to see his mother, or Mehli, or any of them, but his father rejected the rejection. 

“Get out,” Otabek had said. His rage flared into an inferno at the familiar footsteps of his father. 

“Is this about that boy?” The contempt practically assumed a physical weight, and Otabek lost all control. 

“You mean my boyfriend?” His father, his ever stoic, unflinching father, actually recoiled. “My boyfriend, Yuri, the love of my life? That boy? I just ended things with him, so go praise Allah. I might be crippled for life, but I will never fuck another man.” 

“Stop this.” His voice, deadly calm, once so terrifying was now completely meaningless. 

“You have no power over me anymore. You can’t scare me. That was the only role you ever played in my life, so now you’re useless. Get out.” 

He would never forget his father’s face -- the slow draining of color, the shuttering of his eyes, how familiar and small he looked when he turned away. He shut the door with especial care. 

“He is shaken,” his mother said now. “You are the pride of his life. Please, reconcile with him. He is suffering.” 

“He will never accept Yuri,” Otabek said. “His suffering is self imposed.”

“It will take him time. He is trying. When I told him that Yuri was here, that you were doing so much better, he was glad.” His mother was always describing his father as glad, angry, sad, amused, tired, despite the fact that the man only had one facial expression. But she alone had mastered his unspoken language. More importantly, she alone he talked to. 

“I am not going to leave Yuri again. I already chose Yuri over him.” 

“He knows that. He loves you enough to accept this. He has prayed so long every night, nearly as much as when you were in a coma. He doesn’t want to lose you. I’m sure he is praying for guidance and understanding.” 

He’s probably praying that I meet a nice Muslim woman, Otabek thought. “I don’t have time to wait for him to find it. I am making my arrangements to leave.” 

The pain on his mother’s face sapped much of his anger. He covered her hand with his own and added, “We’ll get along as well as we ever have.” 

She tsked. “That’s exactly the problem. But it is your business.” 

Otabek knew that she had no intention of dropping the issue for good, but at least she changed the subject. 

 

Otabek finally left the hospital on the morning of New Years Eve. Getting into the car and driving away for the first time in five months was surreal, and the reality of Yuri by his side was nothing short of Hollywood perfect. His mother talked excitedly as she drove them to the house, explaining that the whole family was gathered there to welcome him home, and to celebrate the new year. Thus, upon entering the living room, he was swarmed. Yuri was caught in the crossfire and thus endured much hugging and cooing. To Otabek’s amazement, he smiled through it all. 

In the living room stood an enormous tree, bathed in twinkling lights. At least 8,000 gorgeously wrapped presents were heaped at its feet. Otabek had already explained to Yuri that in Kazakhstan, New Years traditions resembled western Christmas traditions, but he still looked amazed. 

As they were ushered into the dining room, Yuri pressed close to Otabek’s side, but did not otherwise touch him. When Otabek took his hand, he heard Yuri’s sharp breath despite the low roar of voices. A few relatives averted their eyes, but most did not seem to notice. And then his grandmother tottered over. 

“There’s my handsome grandson and his handsome boyfriend!” She snaked an arm around Yuri and squeezed with all of her (considerable) might. “I am so glad you came back to celebrate with us. I am quite surprised, you did not mention a thing on twitter. But I still have a gift for you!” 

“Good, now it won’t be weird when you open your gift from me,” Yuri said, and it was all Otabek could do to keep his mouth from hitting the floor. 

As they were steered into their seats and plied with food, Otabek murmured, “My grandmother follows you on twitter?” 

“Beka, over half the people in this room follow me on twitter.”

Otabek finally hazarded a look around the table. His family -- aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends -- smiled back at him, none of them staring in horror over his grandmother’s “boyfriend” comment. That didn’t mean some of them wouldn’t express disapproval later, but it hardly mattered. They could go fuck off with Otabek’s father, who was conveniently absent that morning, probably working. 

Mehli sat down beside Yuri with a loud sigh. “Finally, you have arrived. Now they will feed us.” 

 

After breakfast, Otabek managed to sneak Yuri into his bedroom. The possessions from his apartment had been boxed up and consumed most of the floor space, but his bed was neatly made with a blue floral blanket. On his desk in the corner sat a few unpacked items: his laptop, iPod, and the novel he’d been reading before the accident, with its candy pink cover. 

Yuri walked to it directly, and ran his long fingers across the cover. He’d teased Otabek about it during that last skype conversation, and Otabek waited for some smartass remark. But Yuri just thumbed at the leaf the served as a bookmark, and turned away with a shaky breath. 

“Yura?” Otabek cupped his shoulders, and Yuri leaned against him, the back of his neck touching Otabek’s forehead. He breathed Yuri in. 

“Read to me?” Yuri asked. “For a few minutes.” 

Otabek wrapped his arms around him in an affirmative squeeze, and sat on his bed. Yuri plucked the book from the desk and joined him, laying his head on Otabek’s chest as Otabek read. Yuri twirled the leaf in his fingers and Otabek stroked his hair, loving the way Yuri shivered when he ran his fingertips down his spine. 

It wasn’t long before Yuri dozed off, but Otabek kept reading. Yuri had said before that Otabek’s voice soothed him, and Otabek has his arms full of the evidence. 

When Mehli quietly knocked on the door and cracked it open, Yuri did not stir. 

“They’re looking for you guys,” she whispered. “The kids are here, they want to open presents.”

Otabek nodded. His hand was in Yuri’s hair, massaging his scalp. From his vantage point, he could see Yuri’s long eyelashes; he didn’t want to look away. 

“If only I had my camera,” Mehli said, and he glanced at her. She had no mischief on her face; only affection. Caught, she quickly but silently shut the door. 

 

When Otabek told Yuri that it was present opening time, he all but flew out of bed. Minutes later, Yuri and Otabek were seated on the couch, wedged between Otabek’s grandma and mother.

Otabek’s father was home now, sitting with Mehli on the loveseat. He had a present in his lap, wrapped in Mehli’s signature red-polka dots and ribbons. She spoke to him with a big smile, gesturing to the red and green streamers dangling from the ceiling. She’d hauled a bunch of decorations home from California, and Otabek guessed she was talking about them. 

Otabek only had gifts for his mother, Mehli, and Yuri. He hadn’t had time to shop for anyone else, and he’d stopped giving his father gifts when he was twelve. 

But he was veritably swamped with gifts, a massive heap appearing on his lap in seconds as his little cousin, Sam, “delivered” the packages. 

“Yuri,” the seven year old said now, reciting the name from a gift tag. He stared up at Yuri in confusion. “Are you a boy or a girl?” 

The boy’s mother scolded him, her face reddening as she apologized profusely for her son. But Yuri only smirked. 

“I’ve heard worse,” Yuri said. “But you weren’t even trying, were you, kid?” 

“You’re a boy,” Sam said with a grin. “Here is your present. It is from aunt Mira. It is probably socks.” 

It was -- a pair of thick black socks with tigers on them. Yuri reacted with enthusiastic glee and proceeded to immediately put them on. Nobody had ever shown such excitement for aunt Mira’s hand knitted socks, and she looked extremely pleased. 

Otabek could only watched in muted shock. He found himself, without meaning to, looking at his father -- and his father looked back, inscrutable as always. 

It took over an hour for everyone to open their gifts. Otabek’s pile was the largest, and his mother hauled out three laundry baskets to contain his bounty. He received many articles of clothing, and also books, music equipment, even a painting (an eagle perched on a branch, overlooking a sunset.) 

Yuri had an armload of gifts himself, most of them of a feline nature -- tiger striped earmuffs, a cat coffee mug, a stuffed cheetah, a tiger striped towel, a cat sticker on his cheek (from four year old Asha.) And Otabek’s relatives received a gift from Yuri, too, little but perfect things, and Otabek realized that Mehli had obviously helped him with this on their shopping trips. (Tactfully, he got a joint gift for Otabek’s parents -- swan salt and pepper shakers.) 

“I’ll give you your gift later,” Yuri whispered to him, and Otabek was relieved. He had no desire to exchange their gifts before the watchful eyes of his family. 

 

The day crawled by quickly. That was precisely how Otabek experienced it -- languid events, swift current. Sitting with his family, the feast of meats and pastries, Yuri helping Mehli make another dish of beshbaranak, and the toasts. So many toasts, from his oldest uncle, to his tiniest niece. Many expressions of gratitude for Otabek’s return, lots of embarrassing anecdotes about his childhood adventures. Otabek mostly just listened politely, eager to watch the fireworks display with Yuri from the privacy of the den. But then his father took his turn. 

When he stood, everyone fell silent, even the babbling toddlers. The man wasn’t much taller than Otabek but the way he took in a room -- like it was tiny, disappointing -- made him seem mammoth. Even now. 

But he spoke softly, first thanking everyone for coming, and then thanking relatives individually for their contributions. 

“We are blessed today to have my son back after so long an absence,” he said, meeting Otabek’s eyes and nodding once. “Not every family is so lucky. I saw many such devastated families during the long hours at the hospital. I feared such pain. I could not fathom it. It is easy to say that we are grateful for our blessings, but we must invest more in our gratitude, and give praise for our fortunes. For we have many, and in an instant, it can vanish. To my son, and to all of you.” 

Everyone extended their glass and murmurs of agreement filled the room. Otabek took several mouthfuls of wine and avoided making eye contact with anyone. His mother and Mehli were certainly pleased, and Otabek was meant to be the most pleased of all. But he only felt resentment. His father always gave grand toasts, awash with little life lessons and tidy sentiments. But he never had anything kind to say to Otabek after the audience went home. 

It wasn’t long before his family demanded Otabek’s toast. He stood, the dread heavy in his stomach. He’d always hated giving toasts, but in the past, he’d gotten away with a few generic words. Today, he’d be expected to say something personal. 

He stood and glanced around the table before his eyes caught Yuri’s face. Yuri smiled at him, adoration lighting up his eyes. Otabek clasped his shoulder and the dread evaporated. 

“Over the past five months, I’ve realized how fortunate I am. I am grateful beyond words for the support you have shown me. And to Yura...I would not be in this room today had you not come to Almaty. You refused to give up on me. For my entire life, I will cherish you.” 

Yuri’s mouth quirked into a shaky little smile, and he mouthed _Shut up._

“To Yuri,” Mehli said, extending her glass, and everyone (even Otabek’s father) joined her. 

“To Yuri.” 

Otabek’s mother stood up, then, though she had already given a toast. “I need to add something. Yuri. You are part of this family now. I love you like my own. We are blessed to have you here and you will always be welcome at our table.” 

“Here here,” uncle Abor said from behind his beard. 

Otabek took Yuri’s hand from under the table and cast him a worried look. Yuri’s face was pink and he was clearly biting the inside of his cheek -- like he was trying not to cry. 

Everyone rose their glass, and Otabek snaked an arm around Yuri, feeling nothing but pride as he sought the eyes of his family and thought, _I love him_. He hoped it showed. 

 

Otabek’s uncles and cousins set off fireworks in the backyard as soon as darkness fell. Yuri and Otabek watched from the balcony with Mehli and her friends and several cousins. 

After rising from the table, Otabek took Yuri’s hand and had scarcely let go since. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words since the toast, and Otabek felt the weight of the silence between them. It was a warm thing, malleable and waiting. 

It was snowing, the flakes soft and fat. In between the squeal and explosion of fireworks, an electric white hum made the air thick. Yuri’s black down coat had a fine coating of frost on the hood. Otabek rubbed his gloved fingers, and earned a little smile. 

Yuri in the snow was devastating. White crystals clung to his hair. One even landed on his lip. Otabek didn’t blame it one bit. Some snowflakes were smarter than others. 

An especially enormous series of fireworks sprayed the sky in pinks and gold, illuminating the snowy streets like a camera flash. Something clenched in Otabek’s stomach -- a tug of pure happiness. A bittersweet joy. Like he missed something badly, though it was right there -- literally in his grasp. 

“You want to go inside?” he murmured to Yuri. “Watch them from my room for awhile?” 

Yuri snorted. It did sound like a line, and Otabek felt himself blush. Yuri looked at him, his eyes turning so soft. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

 

They made it to Otabek’s room without anyone noticing, and before Otabek could feel nervous about it, Yuri flopped like a starfish on the bed. 

“Are you tired?” Otabek asked, sitting down by his feet. Yuri was ferociously trying to toe his boots off and Otabek helped him. He stroked the arch of his stockinged feet, and Yuri jerked his leg back. 

“Argh, that tickles! And no, I’m not tired, not at all.” 

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier.” He spoke quietly, perhaps too quietly for Yuri to hear as he unzipped his mammoth coat. 

“No,” Yuri said, sitting up and scooting beside him. He stared at his hands. “But you don’t have to keep doing this. Telling everyone, showing everyone. You don’t have to prove anything to me.” 

Otabek’s heart sank. Yuri thought Otabek was only performing -- like his father performed. Making a show of his feelings to prove a point, nothing more. 

“Yura. I meant everything I said.” 

“I know you did. But I also know that you like your privacy. So don’t...exert yourself.” 

“I didn’t. I’m not the same person anymore. The new me wants to share my truest feelings with my family and friends. I can’t not tell people about you, Yura.” 

Yuri smirked at him and rested his head on his shoulder for barely a second before scrambling off the bed. 

“Yura...?” 

“Here, open this,” Yuri said, digging into his backpack and producing a small wrapped box, wrapped in silver paper. Otabek smiled and retrieved Yuri’s gift from his bedside drawer. 

“You too,” he said. 

“You first.” 

Otabek carefully peeled off the tape, ignoring Yuri’s sighs of impatience. 

“Are you one of those people who reuses wrapping paper?” Yuri asked. “Because if so, you are even more adorable than I already knew.” 

“No,” Otabek said, blushing a little. But he was actually glad for Yuri’s yammering, since there were fewer things more awkward than someone silently watching you open a gift. 

What emerged was a black velvet box, and Otabek felt a warm pull in his stomach. He opened the lid to a silver bracelet with a phoenix ornately engraved into the face. 

“Yura,” he said, turning it around in his hand. 

“It’s titanium steel,” Yuri said, in a gruff little voice. 

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” He reached for Yuri, who was standing cross armed beside the bed. Otabek wrapped his arms around Yuri’s waist and pulled him down for a kiss. The angle was too awkward for much more than a brushing of lips, but it went through Otabek like a current of fire, and he was suddenly acutely aware of how alone they were. 

“My turn,” Yuri said, bouncing onto the bed beside Otabek and tearing into his present. Otabek smirked, but he felt a nervous flutter so much stronger than when anyone else opened a gift from him. 

Yuri stared at the long velvet box for a beat and then popped it open. He removed the silver bracelet, partway studded with aquamarine, and ran his thumb over the stones. 

“Holy shit,” he murmured. “Put it on me,” he demanded, holding out his hand, and Otabek repressed a snort. 

“Read the back?” 

Yuri frowned at him and turned the bracelet over, moving his eyes fast and sharp over the inscription -- the words, _To Yura, my light in the darkness._

Otabek’s stomach condensed to a pinecone as Yuri’s eyes remained fixed on the band, his lips moving like he was tasting the words. Then he said, very softly, “Put it on me,” and again extended his arm. 

Otabek clasped the bracelet over the offered wrist, and admired how striking the aquamarine looked on Yuri’s pale skin -- how it emphasized his natural grace. Otabek took his hand and kissed his knuckles and Yuri gazed at him from beneath his lashes. 

“How gay are we,” he said, “Giving each other bracelets.” 

Otabek hummed, his fingers skimming up Yuri’s jaw, across his lips, his cheek. Yuri leaned in and kissed him, twisting his body around to push into Otabek’s space, his forearms on his chest. Otabek smiled into the kiss and pulled Yuri closer, and Yuri reacted by climbing into Otabek’s lap. 

“This okay?” he asked. Yuri’s thighs had Otabek’s legs caged in, and their lower bodies were pressed flush against each other. 

Otabek managed a less than dignified, “Uh huh.” 

“Is this hurting you?” Yuri persisted, running his hands up Otabek’s chest, causing Otabek’s eyes to flutter. 

“No,” he said, and fuck, he was getting hard already. He felt Yuri’s lips on his and opened his mouth, licking and then moaning at the sweet pressure of Yuri’s tongue. 

Yuri whined into the kiss and rolled his hips and Otabek moaned again. Yuri was hard, too, and their bodies were aligned perfectly. The friction had Otabek’s head swimming with pleasure. 

“Beka,” Yuri breathed, and Otabek took his mouth again. He dragged his hands down Yuri’s back and cupped his ass. Yuri made a sound in his throat, like a purr, as Otabek kneaded Yuri through his jeans, longing to feel his bare skin. 

Yuri clung to Otabek’s shoulders, the experimental thrusts of his hips gaining rhythm. Their lips brushed erratically, Otabek lifting up to meet Yuri, holding tight to his ass, and trying not to lose his mind every time Yuri’s hard cock ground against his own. At this rate, he wasn’t going to last much longer. 

He hefted Yuri up by his ass and regretfully released it to push Yuri back on the bed. Yuri gasped, his face flushed and absolutely wanton. Otabek kissed him, draughting long on his sweet mouth before moving down his jaw and latching onto the pulse point of his neck. 

Yuri writhed and moaned, and Otabek could tell he was fighting to stay quiet by the way the sounds dissolved into low hums. Otabek dragged his mouth lower, and pressed his tongue into the hollow of Yuri’s collarbone. Yuri’s hands were under Otabek’s shirt, gripping at his back and shoulders, his touch balmy and perfect. 

When Otabek shifted his hips down just enough, and Yuri whined, “Beka,” then, “Please,” he moaned into Yuri’s throat and started to move. Instinct took over, and he set a punishing pace, his mouth snagging Yuri’s chin and neck, his cheek, his nose. 

“Beka,” Yuri panted, thrusting his hips up, pushing his cock into Otabek’s, so hard and hot despite the unfortunate amount of clothing between them. “Beka, Beka, I’m -- fuck, Beka--” 

And then Yuri’s back arched off the bed and he bucked violently. Otabek watched, rapt, as Yuri bit his own fingers, muffling his moans, but the sounds sparked in his half lidded eyes, in the gorgeous line of his throat as he threw his head back. 

At the sight, Otabek had his face buried in Yuri’s neck, gasping and trembling as he came. Yuri threaded his fingers into Otabek’s hair and wrapped one leg around his waist, moving against him and then clinging hard. 

Otabek panted and mouthed at Yuri’s neck, the warmth coursing through him so blissful, he didn’t want to move. But he also didn’t want to crush Yuri, so he dragged the dead weight of his body away and flopped onto his back. Yuri promptly crawled over to him and dropped his head on his chest. 

For a few minutes, they were silent, their ragged breaths softening, Otabek stroking Yuri’s hair. They would have to change, and soon, but Otabek didn’t want to get up. 

“You alright?” Otabek asked. 

“Mmm. Duh. Also, that’s my line. Asshole.” 

Otabek smiled and kissed Yuri’s head, breathing in his delicious hair smells. 

“I’m good, Yura. So good.” 

Yuri snuggled his chest. “Was your door even locked?”

Otabek felt the smallest thrill of horror. “No.” 

Yuri tsked. “Well, go lock it. Then we can take our disgusting clothes off.” He tipped his head back and kissed Otabek’s jaw, his tongue pressing into Otabek’s skin like an ignition of flame. 

“Yura...can’t. Not here.” So help him, his dick was getting interested again, already. 

“Can’t even speak in complete sentences, Altin? Wait until I get you naked. The things I’m going to do to you.” 

Otabek held his eyes shut, and his breath in, because smelling Yuri was too intoxicating. The temptation rippled inside of him, like a large, ferocious animal, hooves skittering at a starting point, begging him to say, _Go._

“Beka,” Yuri said. “What are you thinking about over there? Are you regretting what just happened?” 

“No,” Otabek replied at once. “No, Yura, that...it was amazing. I want to do so much more. Everything. Just not here, not--”

“Then let’s get a hotel room. I’ll make up some story about needing to leave, and you’ll come with me, and you can say that you stopped by to see a friend on the way back, when really, you will be with me.” 

Otabek found himself holding back laughter. “But then you would have to leave Almaty, Yura?” 

“No, I’d say my emergency was a false alarm, and come back and eat the breakfast your grandma promised me.” 

“Mmm. That’s an awful lot of work.” 

Yuri say up partway, his hand braced on Otabek’s bicep. “What?!” His green eyes sweltered with indignation; he was so beautiful, Otabek tucked his hair behind his ear, and instantly, his eyes turned clear and soft. “Beka, don’t be lazy.” 

Otabek smirked. “But I want to be lazy. I want days in bed with you, Yura. No time constraints, no elaborate schemes. And...” He swallowed. “I want to be recovered. Moreso than I am now. I don’t want anything holding me back, Yura. I have things planned for you, too. So many things.” He combed his fingers down Yuri’s hair and shivered when Yuri shivered. 

“Fine,” Yuri grumbled. “But just what are putting off here? Full on sex, or everything else? Like, when do I get to see your dick, and when do I get to put it in my mouth?” 

“Yura,” Otabek breathed, hiding behind his hand. How badly he wanted to say, Now. 

“Well? Come on, give me a date, I’ll put it in my calendar,” and he actually took out his phone. 

“Yura, you’re going to kill me.” 

“You’re killing me too, Beka. We can’t even be alone together in your parent’s house for five minutes without dry humping each other. Aren’t you still going to live with me in Saint Petersburg?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well, we’re not sleeping in separate beds, you know.” Otabek’s face must have looked stricken, because Yuri’s own became alarmed. “Unless you want to. Am I being...I’m not trying to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, if you’re not ready...” 

“No, not at all, Yura.” Otabek took his hand and caressed his delicate knuckles. “I can’t wait to start our life together, officially. And you’re right. I know I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.” 

“Good,” Yuri said, intertwining their fingers. He pressed his forehead to Otabek’s and then jumped off the bed with no warning. “I’ll go change and then we can take some selfies. When you said the word ‘official,’ it reminded me of something.” He loped out of the room, leaving Otabek in a momentary daze. Then he got to work changing his clothes, wanting to be ready when Yuri returned. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Yuri posted a photo of them together with the caption, _Celebrating new years with my boyfriend @otabek_altin in Almaty. #2019 #official_

Otabek stared and stared at the picture with a stupid smile on his face. He hadn’t seen a picture of himself since the accident. His hair was so strange; a few inches long and damp, towel tousled, no undercut. But he was most captivated by the image of Yuri, arms around Otabek’s neck, only a profile view of his face. 

The comments exploded at once, mostly the Angels screaming and depositing long lines of random letters and numbers, like they had just fallen face first on their keyboards (and they probably had.)

And then came their teammates. 

**phichit** : OMG CONGRATS! <3  
**christophe_gio** : Nice, but u 2 have been dating for yrs, we all knew ;)  
**Seung_gil_lee** : Finally.  
**viktorforov** : YURIO! <3 <3 <3 I am so glad you are sharing your love with the world! So proud!  
**katsuki_yuuri** : Have a happy new year, you two. :)  
**alexander_tremblay** : I might have screamed like a little girl just now. So happy for you two.  
**milaaaa** : !!!!!!! YURACHKA, I almost died when I saw this picture! Look at that boy looking at YOU, his face says it all (and isn’t that unusual?! No offense, Otabek.) BTW tell him I’ll be having a talk with him soon.  
**Mehli_Mehli** : So this is what you two have been doing. I should have known.  
**dariga.altin** : Very nice photo, are you boys in the parlor? Please come out I want to see that bracelet, Yuri.  
**JJStyle** : Everybody already knows, princess. ;) 

“Assholes,” Yuri said, but he was grinning. “I mean, not your grandma, but...” Otabek snickered, and Yuri went back to scrolling. He occasionally read over Yuri’s shoulder as he braided Yuri’s damp hair. 

“Hey, when did you do that?” Yuri asked, thrusting his phone into Otabek’s face. 

**otabek_altin** : [thumbs up emoji]

“When you were looking through your bag for hair serum.” 

Yuri snorted. “Dork.” He turned enough to kiss Otabek’s jaw and then continued to read the comments. 

Later, alone in his bed, Otabek updated his own instagram with a picture he’d taken of them after braiding Yuri’s hair. They were on the couch, Yuri’s head on his shoulder, Otabek’s arm around him, his fingers curled around his braid. It was his first post in almost a year. He captioned it: _Grateful beyond words for @plisetsky_yuri._

Seconds later came the first reply:

**plisetsky_yuri** : sap. <3

And then dozens of fans screaming over the “cuteness.” 

Yuri texted him to not-so-seriously complain about Otabek’s surprise post, and to bemoan the space between them (two walls; Yuri was set up in the parlor.) Otabek snuggled the pillows, still aromatic with Yuri’s hair, and found it very difficult not to touch himself. 

He texted Yuri late into the night, falling asleep with the phone in his hand. 

 

When Yuri went home a few days later, Mehli drove him to the airport. Otabek sat with him in the back seat, his heart and stomach clenched tight with the cold anticipation of Yuri’s departure. 

“Look at this one,” Yuri said, shoving his phone in Otabek’s face. On it was a hilariously bad photo manipulation of them pair skating -- their faces pasted over the actual skaters’, with “Yuri” over “Otabek’s” head in a lift. 

“We’ll pair skate for real,” Yuri said. “And make them all die.” 

Otabek murmured in agreement, and he did agree. He badly wanted to share the ice with Yuri, to get his hands on him on the surface where they moved the best. This idea would motivate him on his darkest days, he could tell. 

Yuri was radiantly happy all the way to the airport, and inside the airport, and even his interactions with the staff were bizarrely joyful. 

_He’s happy because of me_ , Otabek thought. More like the thought fell into his head, demanding notice. _You make him so happy, you moron. And you’re not even doing anything but exist._

“Text me that picture,” Mehli said, as she hugged Yuri goodbye. 

“I will,” Yuri said, rolling his eyes. He turned to Otabek and must have interpreted his look as questioning, because he started to explain, “There’s this tree in my grandpa’s yard--” His words ended with an oof as Otabek pulled him into a hard embrace. 

“Beka,” Yuri murmured into his ear. He buried his face in Otabek’s shoulder, and when he emerged, his voice was raw. “We’ll see each other again soon. Like, actually soon this time.” 

“Yura,” Otabek said. He had a confession -- not quite an epiphany, but a truth that had finally grown to fruition. The words were painful in his throat. So he swallowed them. Now wasn’t the time. No, it was the time, but the words weren’t for Yuri. They belonged in Otabek’s throat. He couldn’t deny them there. 

“I love you,” he said, in their place, and his body glowed with rightness. 

“I love you so much I might puke,” Yuri said. He pulled back and kissed his face, right next to his eye. Otabek canted his chin up and brushed their lips together. They stayed like that, touching each other’s hair, until the boarding call. 

“I’ll text you,” Yuri said, and then rushed through the gate, the braid Otabek had made of his hair still perfect. _Because of him, not me._ Otabek touched his mouth. 

“Come on,” Mehli said. She was laughing at him. She was happy, too. He considered confessing to her, but she already knew. She knew everything. Still, he thought the thought, and loud: 

_I was afraid he would leave me. I thought for sure he would leave me._

He tasted the words in his mouth and felt a very strange peace. Like he’d finally confronted a monster and killed it. 

It was true. He’d been afraid. He’d been a coward. He had control over nothing, so he’d thrown the first punch at the blow he thought was coming. 

But Yuri took him back. He traveled almost 3,000 miles immediately and yanked him up off the ground and forgave him and loved him and was incandescent with happiness. 

Faith. Yuri had it. He saw it in Otabek; he put it there. Otabek wouldn’t underestimate its power again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're yearning for Otabek to work things out with his father, prepare to be disappointed. I'd need a much bigger boat for that. D:


	8. Love on the Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek moves to Saint Petersburg to live with Yuri, and they finally get some ~quality time~ alone. (I won't even pretend this is anything other than smut.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *approaches the microphone* Hello, my friends. Tonight's broadcast contains scenes of adult content not recommended for -- oh, well, let's just say it. SMUUUUUUUUUUUT!!!!!!!!! Shameless, gratuitous smut. If you hate smut, well, I warned ya! Didn't I warn ya?! (That was in groundskeeper Willie's voice, jsyk.) I had to change the rating. It's a lot of smut. 
> 
> (And Yuri is over the age of 18 at this point. Again...jsyk.)

The 2019 World Championships just happened to be in Saint Petersburg. Otabek was coming to watch -- and to stay. 

Yuri’s assumptions about Otabek’s rehab had been wrong. The doctor in Saint Petersburg wanted him to achieve a certain level of proficiency before working with him. He wanted Otabek’s bones completely healed. Otabek had met these goals by mid-February, but for scheduling reasons, and the timing of Worlds, he was slated to begin therapy the first week of April. 

Now Yuri was at the airport with his grandfather, waiting for Otabek’s arrival. And, he was nervous as fucking fuck. 

“Yuratchka,” his grandfather said, like a scolding was imminent. “Stop fretting. He will think you are not happy to see him.” 

“I’m not -- I am happy!” 

“Good. So am I. Finally, I get to meet him.” 

Yuri gritted his teeth so that he would not groan. His grandfather knew good and well that this fact was the precise cause of his anxiety.

Suddenly, passengers emerged from the gate. Yuri jumped up, his heart quickening. Otabek appeared and found them at once, with a half smile and a half wave, and if his grandfather hadn’t been right there, Yuri would have literally mauled him. 

Watching Otabek walk towards them, without a limp, without a bruise, like his body had never been broken...Yuri dug his nails into his palms to keep the tears away. 

“Yura,” Otabek said with a nod, keeping distance between them. “Mr. Plisetsky, it is good to finally meet you, sir.” 

Nicolai barely repressed a smirk as he shook Otabek’s hand. “Likewise, Mr. Altin. And I am so pleased to see you looking well.” 

“Thank you.”

Yuri rolled his eyes at them. It was like an etiquette pissing contest. 

“Please hug my grandson. The suspense of your arrival has made him behave strangely.” 

Yuri opened his mouth to argue, but then Otabek was gathering him into his arms, and he melted. It was only a few seconds, but then Otabek was looking at him and taking his hand. 

“Come along,” Nicolai said, and when Yuri caught his eye, the old man winked. 

 

It had only taken three years to get Otabek into his bedroom, and at that moment, it was worth it. He was on Yuri’s bed, Potya marching across his lap, kneading his legs and licking his fingers. 

_That cat really is my familiar._

In fact, Yuri was pretty sure she was rubbing it in. 

“You don’t have much left to pack,” Otabek noted, glancing around at the towers of boxes that contained Yuri’s earthly possessions. He shrugged. 

“Just the every day essentials. Like Potya. And you.” He sat next to him and bumped his shoulder, earning Potya’s patented glare. 

“Yura,” he said, grabbing his face and kissing him, until Potya interrupted them -- meowing loudly and digging her claws into Yuri’s knee. 

“Ow!” Yuri exclaimed, but Otabek was quick to take his mouth again, with heat and tongue and Yuri moaned between them. 

“Three months,” Otabek murmured, kissing his throat. “’m so sorry, Yura.” And again he was devouring his mouth, and Yuri clung to his back and shoulders, savoring the heat of his body. 

“You’ll make it up to me,” Yuri said, escaping Otabek’s mouth and latching onto his collarbone. Otabek actually fucking whimpered when Yuri pressed his tongue against his skin. 

They were going to have to cut it out. The last thing they needed was Nicolai to walk in on them humping each other’s legs. In less than a week, they’d be moved in to their own apartment, and then...

“Come here,” Yuri said, leaping to his feet. “I’ll show you Mehli’s tree, the one the lightning struck.” 

Otabek looked baffled, like he still hadn’t quite processed how and why Yuri was no longer licking him. 

“Oh...kay.” 

 

Over the next few days, Yuri was too busy training to spend much time alone with Otabek. The moments they did share were stolen in empty rooms, their hands and mouths greedy for each other, always over too soon. 

This meant that Otabek was alone with Nicolai for hours on end, a fact that unnerved Yuri at first. Then he observed them after practice, engaged in soft but intense conversation. Yuri later found out that they both had a passion for classic American cars -- a fact he had not known about either of them. 

“Did he give you a threatening ‘talk’?” Yuri asked him. It was the night before Worlds, and they were in the living room, Yuri’s head in Otabek’s lap as they feigned to watch a movie. 

Otabek was silent for a beat too long. “No. Not threatening. Testing. He loves you more than anything. He wanted to make sure that I did, too.” 

Yuri wanted to demand, How? But the tender note of Otabek’s voice restrained him. He didn’t have to demand every little thing. Some truths were safer, and truer, between other people. 

“Do my hair for my long program,” Yuri said. Otabek stroked his cheek. Even from the odd angle, looking up into Otabek’s eyes was like looking into a literal sky of love. 

“Lilia will kill me.” 

“She’ll be impressed. Besides, that will give her more time with her precious Maxim.” Maxim was the latest child prodigy, a thirteen year old boy with waist length black hair. He was part Russian, part Japanese, and the fangirls had dubbed him “BB Victuuri.”

Otabek just hummed his sexy man beast hum. “Then I can’t wait.” 

They spent the rest of the movie kissing, chaste and thus truncated, whispering sappy shit into the inches between them. 

 

Yuri placed second in the short program -- behind Seung Gil and ahead of Minami, who had a personal best after landing two quads for the first time in his SP. Yuuri and JJ were fourth and fifth after a fall, but still in contention. 

In the kiss and cry, the TV screens replayed Yuri’s key moves, including his bobbled landing on the triple axel. Then they showed the slow-mo reactions of Yuri’s “team” -- Nicolai, Mila, Yuuri, Victor, and Otabek. The flailing of two, the cringing of another, the leaning forward of one, and the steepled fingers and stoic face of the most important person. 

The audience laughed and Yuri rolled his eyes, bracing himself for the ravenous interviewers. His comeback wasn’t anywhere near as interesting as his newly public relationship with Otabek Altin. 

“What does it mean to have Otabek in the stands watching you after surviving such a horrific accident?” one especially annoying reporter asked. 

“It’ll mean a lot more when he’s back on the ice where he belongs.” 

“Now that you’re dating, has your on-ice rivalry changed?” 

“Of course not. I intend to win gold, and so does he.” 

“Rumor has it that Otabek is moving here to train with Yakov Feltsman and that you two are moving in together. Can you confirm or deny?” 

“No.” He walked away then, weaving around in the backstage labyrinth until he found Otabek standing in a quiet corner. 

“You were beautiful, Yura,” he said, taking Yuri’s bag from him and kissing the side of his head. Yuri sagged into his arms, feeling the full weight of his exhaustion. 

“The reporters won’t quit asking about us. I’m just going to announce that we’re married and I’m pregnant.” Otabek huffed a laugh. 

“They cornered me, too. I’m afraid I was forced to be rude to them.” 

“Hm, meaning you didn’t say please or thank you?” 

Otabek swatted his ass, too light to make a sound much less a sting, but it still drew a gasp from Yuri. 

“Did you just _spank_ me?” Yuri asked, withdrawing his face from Otabek’s shoulder just enough to meet his eyes. The look Otabek gave him was enough to make his damn toes curl. 

“Ahem!” 

It was Mila and close behind her were the others, Victor already yammering on like a yippy little dog. Otabek kept his hand on the small of Yuri’s back, tethering his thoughts, and his temper. 

 

Yuri received several tweets imploring him to watch a certain youtube clip. In it, the same annoying reporter approached Otabek backstage after the end of the short program event. 

“Otabek, it’s so wonderful to see you again, looking so well!” she gushed. Otabek nodded once. 

“Thank you.” To anyone else, he was the very picture of classic stoic Altin, but Yuri saw the irritation sparking in his eyes. 

“When can we expect to see you back on the ice?” she asked. 

“I am actively working towards my former level of conditioning.” 

“Wonderful! What are your thoughts about today’s performances?” 

“Everyone performed well.” 

“What about Yuri Plisetsky? Is it fair to say that you are here to support him?” 

“I don’t think it matters why I’m here. The focus should be on the competitors.” 

“You were sitting with Yuri’s grandfather and teammates,” she persisted. “And you have been open on social media about your relationship with Yuri. Has his support been key in your recovery?” 

Yuri watched Otabek take a breath, saw the decisions flit across his face. “That is our business. Please stop asking such questions, especially of Yuri. It is a distraction. I need to go now, please excuse me.” 

Yuri was literally rolling on the bed, cackling, and yet his whole damn body ached with the sweetness of it all. 

The Angels squealed things like, “Look at how much he loves our boy!” “ProtectAbek! He will very politely annihilate you!” “What a gentleman! <3” 

Yuri texted him. 

Y: _You did say please and thank you. You monster._

B: _Yura, go to sleep. It is past midnight._

Y: _Then get in here. My grandpa is asleep. You can sneak out before he wakes up._

B: _I won’t be able to keep my hands off you._

Y: _Good. I need another spanking._

B: _Good night, Yura._

Y: _:’(_

 

The next day, they watched Mila win gold in the ladies event, after she landed the first quad by a woman at the World Championships. Stupid Maxim joined them for dinner, and followed Mila around like a hopeful puppy, and she happily lavished him with big sisterly attention. 

“I can’t believe that kid is straight,” Yuri remarked, when Maxim followed Mila to the restaurant gift shop. 

“Indeed,” Victor sighed, squeezing Yuuri’s hand. “He is no son of ours!” 

“Victor,” Yuuri scolded. “It doesn’t matter if our child is gay or straight.” 

“Oh, you’ve been thinking about it then!” and Victor hauled the blushing man into his arms, nuzzling his head like a wild animal in heat. 

“Ugh, knock it the fuck off!” Yuri spat, and Otabek gave him a curious look. Suddenly, like a bolt of heat to his gut, he wondered if Otabek thought about things like that. Marriage...children. Babies. Did he want fucking babies? Yuri thought he might pass out. 

“Yura?” Otabek queried softly, leaning into his space with a worried look. 

“Nothing, it’s -- they’re just making me sick.” 

Otabek looked unconvinced and rubbed his back for several minutes, until Yuri really did feel better. 

 

Otabek spent over two hours on Yuri’s hair, braiding it into a crown woven with golden twine. Lilia appeared frequently to oversee its progress, her eyes raking across Otabek with her usual shrewdness before she walked briskly away. 

“She likes you,” Mila said after one such encounter. She was there to do Yuri’s makeup (and to keep Georgi from doing his makeup.) 

“Hm, if you say so,” Otabek replied. 

“Of course she does! Look at how happy and adorable you’ve made our Yuri.” 

“Ugh,” Yuri said, and was forced to keep it at that, because Mila had him by the chin and was dusting his eyelids with shiny white powder. 

He wasn’t used to so much human contact directly before a performance. He usually zoned out on his phone while Lilia did his hair. Nobody talked to him. He shoved his earbuds in and descended into the land of music, where no annoying ass people lived. 

But Otabek’s fingers in his hair and Mila’s happy banter? He found himself as content as he had the capacity to be. (Not that he would tell Mila.) 

When his hair and makeup were complete, Mila stood back, arms folded across her chest. 

“Well. The camera lenses are going to explode. Mechanical devices just aren’t equipped to contain so much beauty.” 

Otabek hummed in agreement, his eyes dragging down then up the length of Yuri’s body. When he stepped forward, Yuri cupped the back of his head and kissed him hard. 

“Excuse me, I worked hard on that face!” Mila complained. 

“Sorry,” Otabek murmured, but he was looking at Yuri. 

“No you’re not,” Mila said. “Come on, time to walk!” 

When they reached the door to the backstage hall, Otabek kissed his temple and whispered, “Davai.” 

Yuri kissed him again, wanting to feel Otabek on his mouth when he took the ice. 

“Thank you, Beka,” he said. Then, thrown over his shoulder, “Thanks, Mila!” 

He heard her gasp. “Thank you? Mila, and not hag? Who is this polite and magical creature?” 

He held up his middle finger in response. 

 

Yuri threw down the best long program of his life. The jumps were strong, yes, as they often were. But this time, Otabek was there, too. Actually there, within Yuri’s line of sight, and he took advantage of this more than once, reaching for him when the choreography involved his arms. Just as he’d reached for the mirage of Otabek in his mind so many times before. 

It was the corniest shit on earth, but when he ended the performance with his fingers stretched to the point of strain, and he could actually see Otabek standing, clapping, the titanium flashing on his wrist, Yuri’s eyes filled with tears and he pressed his forehead into the ice. 

 

The Angels had a lot to talk about that night. The copious shots of Otabek clapping and cheering, yes, and the camera capturing and replaying Yuri’s ending pose and the trajectory of his hand, aiming straight at Otabek. 

And the interview. 

“I’m here with gold medalist Yuri Plisetsky and Olympic bronze medalist, Otabek Altin,” the giddy American reporter began. (Yuri had always liked her; she wrote amusing articles.) “First of all, congratulations, Yuri, on your second world championship win.” 

He nodded in thanks and draped his elbow over Otabek’s shoulder, who in turn snaked an arm around his waist. 

“Otabek,” she said, rather breathlessly, “How proud are you of Yuri for his world record breaking performance?” 

Otabek looked at him with a half smile. “It goes beyond pride. Yuri inspires and humbles me every day. There’s no one better than him on the ice.” 

“Yeah, until you come back next season,” Yuri countered. He didn’t care how sappy they were being. Let them see it. 

“I’m sorry, but you two are literally the cutest,” the interviewer practically squealed. “Can we expect you to skate together in a performance like Victor Nik--”

“Yes,” Yuri interjected. “It’ll be much better than that.” 

“Always a competitor,” she teased. “There has been much talk about your bracelets. Did you buy them for each other?” 

Yuri nodded at Otabek, who nodded back and said, “Yes. It wasn’t planned.” 

“We’re just that gay for each other.” Yuri feared he’d gone too far with that comment, but Otabek just smirked and kissed the side of Yuri’s head. 

Yuri blushed when he watched this part. His face positively lit up. He’d always hated that expression, but here was the evidence of its accuracy, like Otabek had activated some switch in his face to smile and shoot literal hearts from his eyes. 

“We are so happy for you two!” the reporter said, speaking on behalf of the planet with some authority. (Not that Yuri gave a fuck all about them.) 

 

There wasn’t any time to relax following worlds, because Yuri and Otabek’s apartment was ready to move into. It was a pre-furnished unit on the top floor of a five story building, and luckily the building had elevators. Victor, Yuuri, and Mila helped them move. It was quickly apparent that Yuri had more stuff than Otabek times three. Posters, rugs, pillows, stuffed animals (purely decorative) and clothes. So much clothing. (And Potya's stuff, though Yuri would bring her a few days later, when they were unpacked.) Otabek had sent over five boxes total of his earthly possessions in the month leading up to his arrival, and then brought two suitcases and a backpack with him on the flight over. 

When all of their crap was finally deposited in the living room, Yuri felt guilty about the way his boxes loomed over and devoured Otabek’s. (And Yuri’s boxes were distinctive, sealed with tiger striped duct tape.) 

“Look at this view,” Victor was saying, from the picture window that overlooked some crappy garden. “This would be a perfect spot for your lamp, Yurio! And this balcony, you must grow something out here, like tomatoes! Oh, this kitchen has so many cupboards, you two must take advantage of that, and look at this breakfast bar!” 

“Would you stop playing real estate agent, old man?” Yuri snapped. “We decided to take it, we’re all moved in.” He was struggling to think of a less ungrateful way to add, Thank you for your help, now get the fuck out. 

“Well, let’s go get dinner!” Victor said, and Yuri remembered, furiously, that dinner had been part of the deal from the start. It was only polite, after all. Yuri hated all of this polite bullshit.

“Don’t worry,” Victor went on, “You’ll have nothing but time to unpack and play house later.” 

Yuri closed his hands into fists. He didn’t want to “play house.” The boxes could sit there for the rest of his life for all he cared. All he wanted to do was get Otabek into their new bedroom and claw off his clothes and attach himself to his hot ass naked body until he literally could not hold his head up anymore from sheer fucked-out exhaustion. 

Mila gave him a sympathetic look and he shrugged, like he wasn’t blushing in the manner of a damsel on the cusp of her deflowering by a sexy dreamboat who had just taken his hand and smiled at him with raw affection. 

Fuck, despite waiting and surviving so many months, it was the next few hours that would kill him. 

 

Yuri ordered only an appetizer and all but swallowed it whole, hoping that he and Otabek could just leave early, citing all of the “work” they had to do. Then Victor and Katsudon would be free to lounge around in the restaurant for hours in a drunken stupor. 

But Otabek took his sweet time, like he was actually in no hurry at all to race home and get Yuri naked, and Yuri soon found himself glaring at the man’s perfectly chiseled profile (and perfectly tousled hair -- the look really suited him.) 

Otabek just offered him a placating smile, and Yuri scowled back. 

“Hurry up, I’m ready to go!” he complained. 

Mila snorted a laugh into her fist. 

“So you told him, then?” Victor asked Otabek. 

“What?” Yuri hissed. “Told me what?” 

“I’d like to stop by one more place,” Otabek said. “His eyes had turned soft, and thus so did Yuri’s sap filled heart. 

“Where?” he asked.

Otabek took his hand from under the table. 

“It’s...a surprise.” 

“What?! Then let’s go!” Yuri jumped to his feet, and Mila groaned. 

“I told you all to keep your mouths shut, now I can’t get dessert.” 

“So everyone is in on this?” Yuri shot, nervous excitement sparking in his stomach. His first (idiotic) thought was that Otabek was going to propose, but his instincts insisted otherwise. Otabek wouldn’t make such a production out of it. (Would he?) 

“I just want to show you something,” Otabek said. If not for the presence of so many nosey humans, Yuri would have said, If you want to show me your dick, just take me home, no surprise stop necessary. 

“You’re killing me, Altin,” Yuri said, staring deadpan into his eyes, and the bastard actually smirked. 

“Alright, alright, let’s go, before the suspense kills our sweet Yurio,” Victor said, and Yuri couldn’t even clap back, because the man was mercifully leading the way out of the restaurant. 

 

When Victor parked in front of their home rink, Yuri was enraged for one blistering second (“Why are we stopping here, you idiot?! Take me to the real place!”) but then comprehension nearly knocked the wind right out of him. 

“Are you going to skate?” Yuri asked Otabek, who only ducked his head and smiled. Otabek hadn’t mentioned any attempts at skating in the past three months, so Yuri’s first emotion was concern. Was he about to do something dangerous without the approval or presence of his physical therapists? 

The anxiety must have been written all over his face, because Otabek cupped his shoulder and said, “It’s okay. I’ve been on the ice this past month with my PT, preparing for the doctor here. I wanted to surprise you.” He looked remorseful, like he was about to apologize -- for keeping it secret, for his attempt at a surprise, for existing in a moment where Yuri appeared something other than happy. 

“Then let’s go in,” Yuri said, flashing him a smile before jumping out of the car. 

 

They had the ice to themselves. Victor had arranged it, because of course he had. The old man even had the tact to give them privacy, leaving with Yuuri and Mila after unlocking the doors. 

Mila grabbed Yuri before they left and whispered, “I left my iPod on the deck. Just push play.” She winked and left Yuri gaping at her in confusion. 

So his meddlesome friends were awesome, and now he had even more reasons to appreciate them. The burden of this fact lifted, however, the moment he saw Otabek step onto the ice and skate towards him like he’d never left. 

“Beka,” Yuri said, without sound, as Otabek pumped his legs and maneuvered the blades into easy arcs, coming to a stop at Yuri’s feet. 

“I haven’t tried much,” Otabek admitted. “Mostly just laps, figure eights, some footwork. Basic spins.” 

“You look perfect,” Yuri said, his voice cracking. He was actually going to start fucking crying, and fuck anyone who would judge him. Otabek on the ice, in simple black warm up clothes, was proof that the world was at times a wonderful place where good things happened. He felt hope brace against his chest. 

“Yura,” Otabek said, and gathered him into his arms. Yuri clung to him, trembling, so stupidly happy, he gasped with laughter. 

“Come on, Altin,” he said, springing away from him. “Skate with me.” He waited for Otabek to skate first, to set the pace, and Yuri matched his speed. Otabek took his hand and they skated laps around the rink, passing the familiar topography of Yuri’s home ice. The signage on the walls (boasting Victor’s accolades, and Yuri’s, too), the faded hockey topography, the ceiling light at the edge of the rink that had been out for months. And now, Otabek, impossibly existing in the same space, merging home and work and love. 

“I’ve been wanting to skate with you, like this, for so long,” Otabek said. 

“Like this?” Yuri asked, gently leaning into Otabek’s space, and Otabek obligingly pulled him against his chest, the two of them coasting on gathered speed. 

“Mmm hmm,” Otabek hummed, kissing his shoulder. 

“For how long?” Yuri breathed. 

“Years, Yura.” 

“Well, you should have asked.” Yuri turned around and took his hands, twisting experimentally, an imitation of ice dancing. Otabek took the cue and drew him close to his chest again, maneuvering them in a half spin. They moved like this slowly, finding their tandem, as the inane song on Mila’s playlist ended and another began. 

Yuri rolled his eyes as the dramatic percussion of Rihanna’s _Love on the Brain_ echoed across the ice. But the way Otabek’s hand suddenly clenched the small of his back made Yuri seek his eyes. Otabek smirked and held Yuri’s hand at arm’s length before grabbing him by the hips and pulling him close. 

They flowed together, Yuri’s arms around his neck, Otabek’s hands tantalizingly close to his ass. Yuri pressed their foreheads together, not breaking eye contact for a second, watching as the brown of Otabek’s irises grew darker. 

At the chorus, Yuri swiveled around in Otabek’s arms, arching his back and resting his head on Otabek’s shoulder. He shook out his hair, knowing how much Otabek loved it, and mouthed at his chin. 

Suddenly, Yuri’s feet sailed off the ice and he sucked in a breath as Otabek lifted him with ease. His blades barely met the ice again when Otabek’s mouth was on his. The wet heat of his tongue was like a supernova, every bit as miraculous as the first time. Yuri moaned into his mouth, and the responding noise in Otabek’s throat was like a growl; his hands slid down to grab Yuri’s ass, and Yuri’s whole body responded with near system failure. 

He was breathless when Otabek released him and skated back a few paces, clasping Yuri’s hand and inviting him to twirl. Yuri obliged, and then detached from Otabek’s grasp to skate to the lyrics. Yuri improvised, the footwork sinuous, his eyes never leaving Otabek’s. He went into a layback spin, his hair a storm of blond in his face, and when he emerged, Otabek was right there to scoop him into his arms again. 

“Fuck, Yura,” his whispered, spinning them in a slow arc. Otabek’s voice and the word “fuck” did carnal things to Yuri’s body. He skated Otabek against the boards, kissing him to bruise. 

They forgot the ice and clung to each other. Yuri worked his hand under Otabek’s shirt and palmed the muscles in his back. When Otabek grabbed his ass and ground their hips together, Yuri gasped at the sudden contact. They were both so hard. 

“Fuck, Beka, I’ll suck you off right now, just say the fucking word,” Yuri said, staring the plea into Otabek’s eyes. They instantly squeezed shut. 

“Yura...public, we’re, fuck, come on.” He pushed away from the boards and skated for the exit. Yuri raced after him, his heart accelerating. When they reached the locker room, Yuri all but mauled him; he was so charged with lustful certainty that when Otabek peeled him off his body, Yuri actually yowled. 

“Not here, Yura, home,” Otabek said, and Yuri had never heard such urgency in his voice. It actually strained on the brink of fear. Yuri noticed, now, how Otabek’s hands shook as he laced his tennis shoes. 

“You alright?” Yuri asked, the haze of desire fading slightly. 

“I will be when I get you in our bed.” He looked up at Yuri and then away, running his hands through his own hair. Yuri could barely breathe. He was so glad the apartment was only a five minute walk away. Shorter if...

“Then let’s run.” 

 

It was a brisk spring evening, but neither of them wore coats. The idea of adding more clothing to his body struck Yuri as appalling. They raced all the way home in silence, as if they were on some dire mission, a race against a clock ticking down to an eruption. 

(Yuri had a few tasteless metaphors for that. His mind was all heat and no wit.) 

The moment they got into their apartment, Otabek pushed Yuri against the door. Yuri gasped between kisses, his hands fisting the material of Otabek’s shirt and pulling. 

“Off,” he said, like it was threatening their lives, but Otabek was busy kissing his neck and dragging his shirt up to feel his chest. 

“Fuck, Beka, please,” Yuri groaned, and Otabek tore away, grabbing Yuri’s hand and steering them into the bedroom. 

They clamored onto the neatly made bed, on their knees and tugging at each other’s shirts. 

“Let me, let me,” Yuri begged, and Otabek relented, breathing hard, as Yuri pulled his shirt off. “Fuck,” Yuri whispered, the word cut off with a hiss as Otabek pushed him onto the bed. 

Yuri moaned, his voice loud, even though nothing was happening yet. No, everything was on the cusp of happening. His whole body was heavy with the weight of Otabek, kissing him, using his tongue like it belonged in Yuri’s mouth, his hands pulling Yuri’s shirt up and then off. 

Then Otabek was kissing his chest and tonguing a nipple, and Yuri’s hips rose up off the bed. 

“Beka, fuck, Beka--” He hooked one leg around Otabek’s waist and forced his hips down, biting the cry of his voice into a hum. 

“Yura, can I touch you?” Otabek asked. He was panting. 

“Yes!” Yuri still had his leg clenched around Otabek’s body, but he loosened his hold with a whine when Otabek began to unzip his jeans. Yuri squeezed his leg again and choked, “Wait...” 

“You okay?” Otabek asked, his voice concerned -- normal again. “Yura, look at me.” 

“I’m fine,” Yuri managed, only squinting at Otabek. He was afraid to move. “Just, I’m gonna -- I’m so close.” He shut his eyes hard, his cheeks burning. 

“Yura, that’s what I want,” Otabek said. “It’s alright. Let me make you come.” Yuri moaned and tossed his head to the side, fighting his every instinct to succumb immediately. 

“Hurry,” he begged, and Otabek did. He tugged Yuri’s pants down just far enough to wrap his hand around Yuri’s cock, his palm and fingers barely moving, and Yuri’s whole body twisted off the bed as he came. 

Yuri thrust into the tight heat of Otabek’s fist, moaning and only distantly aware of it. Nothing had ever felt as good as Otabek’s hand on his cock, and he was greedy. He couldn’t come hard enough. 

“I won’t, I won’t, Yura,” Otabek was murmuring, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone. Yuri didn’t realize he’d been speaking, and then he was emerging from the haze of orgasm and felt the words in his mouth: _Don’t stop._

His legs were still writhing when Otabek slid his jeans completely off. 

“Fuck,” he slurred, again and again. Otabek’s hands ran up his thighs and Yuri looked down, inhaling sharply when Otabek licked a stripe up his stomach, where he had come. Otabek stared up at him, his eyes dark -- feral. 

“Get up here,” Yuri growled, pulling at his hair, and Otabek moved fast, pushing his tongue into Yuri’s mouth. Yuri moaned, thinking he should be repulsed by the taste of his own come, but not when it was on Otabek’s tongue. His cock was already recovering. But he cared more about Otabek’s cock. He pushed Otabek away and rolled him onto his back so fast, Otabek stared up at him with unchecked amazement. 

“’m stronger than I look,” Yuri said, kissing him once and then moving down his body with his lips. 

“You’re a fucking warrior,” Otabek said, gasping when Yuri sucked one nipple into his mouth. Yuri felt it harden against his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his head, to his cock. 

“Wanna suck you off now,” Yuri said, his fingers finding the top of Otabek’s jeans. But he wouldn’t forge ahead until--

“Yes, Yura, fuck...” 

Yuri pulled Otabek’s jeans down, watching in anticipation as the layers of clothing finally unburdened the bulge of Otabek’s cock. 

It was bigger than Yuri had expected (and he’d expected a lot) but the shudder that ran down his body wasn’t a bad thing. He put his hand on it, felt the heat of it against his palm, felt it twitch. Otabek made a small sound of desperation. 

Yuri licked the head of Otabek’s cock, tasting the precome, and Otabek actually cried out. Yuri’s ears thrummed, as if submerged in water, and he plunged Otabek into his mouth. 

He’d watched his fair share of porn, had studied how-to articles, had even practiced on phallic-shaped objects, but nothing could prepare him for the reality. The taste of Otabek on his tongue, the texture of his veins, the way his cock jerked when licked a certain way. 

“Yura, fuck...kitten,” Otabek panted, his hand in Yuri’s hair, his fingertips moving in tender circles. 

Yuri pulled off, panting and then took him deeper. His own cock was hard again, and he palmed it feebly, moaning and palming Otabek’s balls instead. That inspired another breathless “fuck,” and he hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard. 

“Yura,” Otabek gasped, his voice rising into a warning moan. He wound his fist into Yuri’s hair and started to pull him off, but Yuri slapped his hand away, humming the word, _No._

“Yura, I’m going to come,” he said, his words breaking off into the most amazing sounds, and Yuri felt the hot jets of come on his tongue. He moaned around Otabek’s cock, only gagging a little as it pushed into his throat, pulsing thick and salty. He felt the satisfaction of the moment down to the core of his chest, and yet he had never wanted Otabek more. He was pure cellular lust as he swallowed Otabek down, his tongue lapping at the head of his cock, not wanting to miss a single solitary taste. 

Only when Otabek was sprawled out, too sated to move, did Yuri stop. He sat back and drank in the sight of a blissed out Otabek, arm thrown over his eyes, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat covering his chest and throat. Yuri crawled over him, kissing the line of his jaw. 

Otabek hummed, his fingers threading into Yuri’s hair. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, and Yuri obediently surged forward. They kissed lazily, Otabek’s hands roaming down Yuri’s back with shiver softness. Slowly, he cupped Yuri’s ass and pulled back to kiss his throat. Yuri tipped his head back with a soft sound, his thoughts turning to fog as Otabek mouthed the side of his neck. 

“Yura,” he breathed. “Roll over.” He softly squeezed Yuri’s ass to accentuate his point, and Yuri whimpered. He couldn’t scramble onto his stomach fast enough. His eagerness was wanton; his cock throbbed against the mattress in anticipation. 

He felt Otabek’s weight shift on the mattress, and shuddered when two strong hands ran down his back, moving his hair tenderly aside. Then those hands were on his ass, spreading him open, the cool shock of air replaced by wet heat. 

Yuri felt a cord of heat seize his body. He yelled into his pillow as Otabek’s tongue plunged against his hole, licked the rim and then pushed through the tight ring of muscle. 

Yuri dug his fists into the blankets and groaned, the noises guttural, otherworldly. His cock throbbed, and he realized, with a heady combination of desire and mortification, that he was already on the verge of coming. 

“Ngh, Yura,” Otabek panted, his voice filthy, and Yuri keened. 

“Please, Beka...!” 

Otabek’s tongue claimed his ass again, and Yuri buried his face in the pillow, his knees and ass rising to give Otabek easier access. He tossed his head and cried out when Otabek’s tongue pushed deep. He stroked himself, not giving a shit anymore, but Otabek knocked his hand away -- replaced it with his own. 

“Fuck....fuck!” Yuri yelled, and he was coming, clawing at the blankets, his body twisting, but Otabek kept tonguing his ass and moaning. The sound reverberated in Yuri’s mind as the roar of bloodrush rendered him boneless and whimpering into his pillow. 

Yuri was still breathing brokenly when Otabek turned him over and sprawled out beside him, kissing his shoulder. Yuri rolled flush against his body and kissed his mouth, not caring where it had just been. (Actually caring a little, and only in the best possible way.) 

Yuri hooked his leg over Otabek’s waist, expecting to feel his hardness, but he didn’t. He pulled away from the kiss and looked down, not subtle at all. 

“I came when you did,” Otabek murmured. “Got some on you. Thought you felt it.” 

Yuri scoffed. “I was a little distracted by your tongue in my ass.” He smothered a moan into the crook of Otabek’s neck; he could still feel the echoes of sensation. It would turn him on for the rest of his life, he could tell. He would have to remember not to think about it in public, unless he wanted to walk around hard. 

“Like I care,” he continued, emerging to prop his cheek on his fist so he could gaze at Otabek, so fucking hot with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks. “I want you to come on me, and in me. Especially in me.” 

Otabek sucked in a breath. His eyes turned impossibly darker. 

“I have condoms,” he said. Again, Yuri scoffed. 

“Neither one of us has done this before. We don’t need those. I want to feel you in my ass, just like I felt you in my mouth.” 

“Yura,” Otabek groaned, covering his eyes. “You’re going to kill me.” 

Yuri half crawled over him, opening his mouth with kisses. 

“Am I too much for you, Altin?” he murmured, lightly closing his teeth on Otabek’s lower lip. “You going to fuck me or not?” 

“Gonna love you,” Otabek whispered, moving Yuri’s lips with the words. 

“You romantic bastard.” They kissed, the tips of Otabek’s fingers touching his face, like love itself was there. Yuri’s heart thumped. He realized that it took a certain strength to receive such love, and he was so glad that he had it. 

“C’mon, Beka,” Yuri said, licking his kiss swollen lips. “Open me up.” He rolled onto his stomach again and lifted his ass. He was desperate as fuck, and it only electrified him. Then Otabek grabbed his hip and pushed him onto his back, and Yuri opened his mouth to protest -- stopped when he looked up into Otabek’s blackened eyes. 

“I want to see your face,” Otabek said, with a calm that only just frayed at the final syllable. Yuri couldn’t even manage a nod. He wrapped his legs around Otabek’s waist and felt the delicious texture of his back muscles against his heels. 

Suddenly, Otabek’s eyes fell shut and the feral power drained from his face. 

“What -- Otabek?!” 

“It’s in my backpack, in the living room,” Otabek muttered. 

“What is?” Yuri demanded, as Otabek sprang out of the bed and took off down the hall. Yuri stared at his retreating ass, further irritated by the fact that he hadn’t had a good look at it yet. 

“What are you doing?” Yuri bellowed, but Otabek was already returning and all but leaping onto the bed, clutching a bottle. 

“Sorry, Yura,” he said, scooping Yuri into his arms and kissing him. “I forgot to bring this in here earlier.” 

Yuri blinked down at the bottle of lube between kisses and started to laugh. 

“I thought you were having a fucking medical emergency,” Yuri said. 

“I was,” Otabek said, laying him gently onto his back. “I realized I had to leave the room and stop touching you.” 

“Yeah, don’t do that again,” Yuri said. Otabek ran his hand down Yuri’s chest and stomach, and then up his half hard cock. Yuri grunted, jerked his head to the side. 

“I won’t,” Otabek said, opening the bottle. Yuri snared his legs around Otabek’s back again, locking him there. 

“Yura, look at me.” 

Yuri did. His vision seemed soft around the edges, like the corners were burned off. Otabek was the only thing left. His desire was palpable; he squeezed his legs around Otabek, to feel what he wanted -- to have it. 

“Should see you right now,” Otabek whispered, and he reached for Yuri’s face, but did not touch. 

“Beka,” Yuri pleaded. 

“Yura,” he echoed, his lust-lost face regaining some composure. “If you need me to stop, for any reason--”

“No.”

“Yura, please. If it hurts, if you don’t like it, if anything--”

“I will, fuck, have I ever kept my mouth shut?” 

Otabek’s lips quirked into a fond smile. “You would for me.” 

“Whatever. I’ll do anything you want if you’ll just fuck me already.” 

“I’ll do anything you want, too, Yura. I’ll start. I’ll stop.” 

“Start,” Yuri ordered, but he reached up and touched Otabek’s face. He thought, absurdly, of a heart. His fingers on Otabek’s face was love; he didn’t need to say it. Otabek nodded and finally turned the bottle in his hands, slicking his fingers. Yuri arched his back slightly in anticipation. 

At the first gentle pressure of Otabek’s fingertip, Yuri pushed forward. Yet Otabek steadied him, going slow, entering his body. Yuri had used his own fingers on himself enough times for the sensation to be familiar, but now it was Otabek, and it was like he’d never even breathed until now. 

Otabek stared at his face, his expression like a feral animal watching another, the muscles in his jaw twitching. 

“More, Beka...” 

Otabek complied, his two thick fingers filling Yuri up. The sensation washed over Yuri’s body, the top of his head tingled, his ears thrummed with the circulatory sounds of a seashell. Only two fingers, and he was losing his mind. It occurred to him, dimly, that he might die from Otabek’s cock. 

“You’re so tight, Yura. Are you--”

“More, come on, fuck...”

The third one burned, and of course it did, three of Beka’s fingers was like six of Yuri’s. He moaned and squirmed, eager despite the stretch. He was familiar with stretching and burning, after all; as a skater, it was his element. 

“Okay?” Otabek asked, twisting his fingers and Yuri bucked his hips. He clenched hard, holding fast to the white hot currents of pleasure, nearly sobbing from it. How many times he had dreamed this moment, and how tepid the fantasies had been. 

Otabek crooked his fingers again, and Yuri writhed. His heels dug into Otabek’s back, printing his skin with the shape of his pleasure. 

“Fuck, Yura...” The tone of Otabek’s voice was his breaking point. 

“Now, Beka, please!” 

Yuri wasn’t sure who whined -- maybe both of them. But then Otabek’s fingers were gone, and Yuri definitely made a pathetic sound. Before he could complain about the empty feeling, he felt the large pressure of Otabek’s cock. 

“Yes, fuck,” he rasped. 

“Yura.” Otabek touched his cheek, and Yuri realized his eyes were closed. He opened them wide, staring into Otabek’s face, tinged pink and adoring. 

“Beka,” he said, encircling his legs tighter around his waist. The soft places on Otabek’s face, once revealed so slowly and individually over their years of friendship, were laid bare now as Otabek pushed inside of him for the first time. It was only the head of his cock and yet Yuri felt it down to his feet, like heat crackling. 

“You okay, Yura?” Otabek asked. His voice trembled, maybe because Yuri was shaking. 

“Yes, more, Beka.” 

He felt Otabek like he was heat, solidified, and it burned badly. 

_No, it’s good, it’s good_ , and he was saying this out loud, even as the pain turned sharp. He knew that precise cut of pain, knew he was literally almost torn, but he held Otabek tight with his legs, caging him in place. 

“This is hurting you,” Otabek said, horror in his voice, and the enormous heat retreated from Yuri’s body. 

“No!” Yuri protested, but Otabek was out, sitting on his haunches and panting for breath. “Beka, don’t stop.” His voice was actually on the verge of breaking, his desperation spreading open in his chest. 

“Not stopping,” Otabek soothed, and again Yuri felt the shape of his fingers sink into his body. He moaned, part relief, part frustration. 

“Going slow,” Otabek said. He cupped Yuri’s leg and kissed his knee. 

“It’s going to hurt a little bit,” Yuri said. “You’re fucking huge.”

Otabek shook his head. He was moving his fingers around, stretching them, stretching Yuri, but not touching his prostate. “I can’t stand you in pain, Yura. And a minute ago, that wasn’t a little pain, that was a lot.” 

“It’ll just take a minute to adjust,” Yuri said. “Like any other stretch. I can handle it.” 

“I can’t--”

“I know, I know, fuck, you are literally perfect.” 

“We both know that’s not true.” 

Yuri scoffed, dimly aware of how weird it was to have an entire conversation with Otabek’s fingers up his ass. He closed his eyes, shuddering as Otabek brushed so close...

He was still hard. The pain had taken some of his arousal, but it was back now, building with every gentle twist of Otabek’s fingers. In porn and erotic fiction (Yuri partook, occasionally), pain was often an aphrodisiac, or, at most, momentary, paling in comparison to the eagerness of the penetrated person. Yuri had expected this to be true of himself. He should have known better. Otabek did, and Yuri had to admit that he was glad. 

Slowly, Yuri felt himself relax, the way muscles did when they finally surrendered. Surrender. What a stupid word to have in his mouth as he writhed in bed, the man of his dreams finally touching him. This wasn’t surrender; it was eager invitation. Physiological greed. But the idea of giving himself to Otabek, the syllables, _surrender_...it sought his brain like a fever, and he moaned. 

“Beka, try again, please...”

Otabek whispered something in Kazakh and withdrew his fingers. Yuri grabbed his shoulder and held Otabek’s stare, hoped his eyes were green for blood. He held the command in them, not trusting his voice, not when he knew his lips would tremble. 

Again, he felt Otabek’s cock, easier this time, the tidal force of heat pushing into him with exquisite care. Otabek cupped Yuri’s cheek, his stare faltering in a flutter of lashes when Yuri took him inches more. 

Yuri tilted his head back, as sensation stole the length of his body. It burned, but it was a slow lick of flames, and the fullness of Otabek inside of him throbbed so good. Confoundingly, Yuri thought about the first time Otabek had touched his hair. The gentle tug of fingers pulling the roots just enough to make him shiver, and here this was, the same thing, inverted. 

Otabek dropped his face in Yuri’s shoulder with a broken gasp, and Yuri knew he’d finally bottomed out. He tightened his legs around Otabek’s waist, panting. The stillness charged between them, the blood rush so thunderous, Yuri felt it in his ears. 

Yuri slid his fingers into Otabek’s hair, and Otabek lifted his head. 

“You okay, Yura?” he asked. 

“Yeah. You?” 

“Fuck, yes...” Otabek kissed him, his mouth lingering on Yuri’s cheek, and Yuri felt the soft moan on his skin. 

“Beka, you can--”

“No.” The word came out broken. Yuri stroked his hair. 

“It’s okay if you--”

Otabek’s mouth took those words, the kiss burning slow between them. Yuri felt the power in his legs, in his chest. He could thrust his hips, could make Otabek come so fast...

“Beka,” he moaned. He wanted Otabek to come inside him more than he’d ever wanted fucking anything. 

Otabek slid his hand into Yuri’s hair and held the back of his head, his eyes a shimmer of black water. He said Yuri’s name like he’d say, _Come with me_ , and he moved. 

Yuri felt the fullness shift inside of his body, a mere breath of retreat before it took him again completely. 

Otabek gasped something in Kazakh, the sound primal, and when he moved again, Yuri could visualize the slow drag of his cock. This time, he landed so deep, Yuri’s voice rose in a pleasure shock. Otabek answered with a moan, his fingers tender in Yuri’s hair as he inched out of his body and then pushed inside of him so slow. Yuri twisted off the bed as the head of Otabek’s cock dragged against his prostate, and he was nearly sobbing. It was a raw pleasure, almost too much, but when Otabek withdrew, Yuri begged for more. 

Otabek was murmuring, _Kitten, kitten, baby_ , and Yuri cried his name. Every slow thrust brought friction across Yuri’s cock, heat building, sparking. Yuri tossed his head to the side and felt Otabek’s mouth on his neck. Another rush of flesh deep inside of him, and he snarled, so on the cusp of orgasm. 

“Close, please,” he begged, and Otabek wrapped his hand around Yuri’s cock. Yuri processed the delicious curl of Otabek’s fingers and the heft of his cock making electric contact, and he was arching off the bed, yelling. 

He clung to Otabek’s body as he came, his arms around his neck, his heels digging into his back. He rocked his hips, seeking hard, and Otabek’s voice rose against his in the most amazing moans. Yuri felt the hot pulse of Otabek coming inside him, and he bit down on Otabek’s shoulder, a carnal need for flesh between his teeth. He was so full, taken utterly, but also taking, as every moan and jerk of Otabek’s body became his own. 

Yuri’s limbs felt heavy, as it saturated with sunlight. When his arms and legs hit the mattress, he stretched them for the warm sparkle of sensation. 

Otabek’s mouth was on his shoulder, murmuring kisses. He was trembling, and Yuri laid his hand on his back, imagined a palm print on his skin. They were both wet, malleable. 

Then Otabek rolled over, and Yuri’s breath hitched at the sudden emptiness. He could actually feel Otabek’s come slipping from his body, and it probably should have grossed him out, but it didn’t. (At all.) 

He turned towards Otabek, his face burying into the side of his chest. From there, he could pretend he was still shorter than Otabek. For some reason, he wished he was. He felt the familiar length of Otabek’s fingers in his hair, stroking, his knuckles bumping his scalp. Even after everything else, his shivered.

“You sleeping, Yura?” Otabek asked, in a voice on the brink of that very thing. 

“No. Not gonna. Neither can you.” He closed his eyes, just to rest. He wouldn’t fall asleep like everyone always fell asleep after sex in movies and books. He was happy, that’s all. He was warmer and softer than he had ever been, and he was just going to hold it close for a few minutes. 

 

Yuri woke up, cursing and searching for the clock, for the window, some signal of time. The possibility that he had wasted the majority of his first night with Otabek sleeping filled him with actual panic. 

There was no clock; all such items were still packed. It was dark, but it had been dark when they came home. Yuri’s phone was in the pocket of his hoody, and that was somewhere on the floor. 

Yuri moved gingerly against the warm shape of Otabek, until he was propped on his elbow and gazing down on Otabek’s sleeping face. 

His deep set eyes, full lips, the long dip of his eyebrows, his fucking jawline. Yuri hovered his lips at the bridge of Otabek’s nose. His heart felt like it was sitting in a fist, squeezing just enough to contain but not crush. The gentle pressure hurt so prettily. 

The last time Yuri watched Otabek sleep was in the hospital. Otabek still unwell, his progress measured by the growth of his hair. It was downright lustrous now, an absolute gorgeous mess. Yuri brushed a strand off his forehead. He thought suddenly about the first time he’d seen Otabek asleep, on the screen of his laptop. He’d been a voyeur, then. He’d touched the plasma for Otabek’s face, and longed. He hadn’t yet admitted what he wanted, but his skin had known. Epithelial hunger. 

He thought of the motorcycle, a truck, pavement. A sleep too sound. He very nearly blurted Otabek’s name, just to watch his eyes open. 

“I love you so much, you magnificent, flaw free bastard,” he whispered. He touched his lips to Otabek’s cheek, and then shimmied partway off the bed, trawling the carpet for his hoody. He found it, and dug his phone from the pocket. It was only 10:31. And he had a text from Mila. 

Mila: _Hey, I left my sweater at your place. Just bring it by the next time you’re there. I know it might be awhile. ;)_

He started to draft some snarky reply when he felt a hand on his calf. 

“Yura?” 

Yuri pushed himself properly on the bed again, and turned to face Otabek beneath the fall of his hair. The pose was absolutely on purpose, and he saw the effect in Otabek’s eyes. 

“Come here,” Otabek said, and Yuri climbed across the bed to splay across Otabek’s chest. Yuri kissed the sleep from Otabek’s lips, felt fingers grip tighter in his hair. 

Yuri sat up partway, his thumb tracing the arch of Otabek’s cheekbone. 

“I like the view from up here,” he said, swaying his hips just enough. Otabek’s eyes fluttered. 

“Yura...”

“Its only 10:30. You promised me days, Altin. Or have I tired you out?” He was acting stupid, but he couldn’t help it. A giddy energy surged deep in his chest. 

Otabek’s hands ran up his sides and lifted him, like he was weightless, and laid him on his back. Not in a passionate retort, nor as a show of power, but to begin a slow worship of Yuri’s body. He skimmed the length of Yuri’s legs with the back of his hands, then palmed his hips. He dragged his mouth up Yuri’s chest, his lips pausing at each rib. Yuri was already arching his back, baring his bones taut against skin. He closed his eyes for the unexpected spark of Otabek’s lips on the tender underside of his wrist, his bicep, the plane of his neck. He imagined molecules, gathering close and melting into the singular warmth that consumed him now. He clutched at Otabek’s back in handfuls and breathed out a soft whine. Otabek hummed against his throat. 

“I could do this all night, Yura...for weeks.” He kissed Yuri’s mouth, held the contact for so long, Yuri could taste pink. 

“Me too,” Yuri said, threading his fingers into Otabek’s hair and kissing beneath his eye. “Months.” 

“Otabek smiled. “They’ll notice we’re gone. They’ll break down the door.” 

“They’d do that after a few days,” Yuri scoffed. “I’ll update twitter and instagram a few times a day, and hopefully they won’t call or text.” 

“Hmm? What’ll you post?” Otabek had his chin on his fist and gazed down at Yuri, his eyes shimmering. 

“That I’m in bed with the hottest man on earth and to leave me the fuck alone.” 

Otabek arched an eyebrow. “Mmm. The Angels will literally combust. Only their ashes will remain. You’ll be sued by their parents.” 

“Won’t matter. I’ll just go back to bed.” He hooked one leg around Otabek’s waist, his heel making slow circles down his back. 

The brown of Otabek’s eyes darkened in an eclipse of pupils. 

“Yura...the looks you give. I might be the one to combust.” 

“You’re one to talk.” So quickly he was hard, and Otabek’s body wasn’t close enough. “Come the fuck here.” 

Otabek’s mouth moved in the smallest of smirks, and then he was pulling away.

“Hey...!” Yuri’s voice caught in a gasp as Otabek sank down to kiss his hip bone, his hands cupping his thighs. Slowly, he mouthed across Yuri’s abdomen and down, his lips dragging across the head of Yuri’s cock. 

Yuri torqued his upper body to the side with a desperate sound. Otabek’s hands slid up his chest and held him there softly as the wet heat of his tongue spilled across Yuri’s cock. 

Yuri’s voice expelled. He was going to die; he might even have said that. Then he felt the glorious heat consume him, felt the inside of Otabek’s mouth with his dick, and for a moment he couldn’t hear anything but the blood rush. 

His heart was thunderous. He felt it in his cock, where Otabek’s tongue was running the length of him, pushing. Then, a pulse of suction and lips and a wet ignition of heat, and he was plunged deep. 

He was moaning and cursing, the latter because he was going to come any second, and it wasn’t fair that he would have to return to a reality where Otabek wasn’t sucking his dick. 

He looked down, and Otabek’s eyes opened in prisms of light; he looked right at Yuri, his tongue swiping the head of his cock. 

Yuri yelled, to warn him, to come, and he was -- all of it. His hips bucked, his cock seeking Otabek’s mouth, his tongue, and he felt Otabek swallowing, humming, fighting to taste Yuri through his orgasm. Feeling Otabek’s tongue against his pulsating cock practically made him howl. He was panting to the point of wheezing and sweat ran down his neck. He didn’t know how long he was laying there, writhing, before he realized it was over and Otabek was just watching him and stroking his hair. 

He cupped the back of Otabek’s head and pulled him to his mouth, still shaking too much to kiss properly, but Otabek took his lips hard enough for them both. 

“I love watching you,” Otabek murmured. “Watching you come.” 

Retorts swam in his mind, too hazy to grasp. So he just kissed and kissed Otabek until he could breathe again, and then he rolled Otabek onto his back. 

“Your turn, Altin,” he said, kissing him with deliberate slowness. Otabek’s hands wound into his hair at the same pace. Not wanting to lose contact with Otabek’s mouth, Yuri patted around the bed. Otabek hummed, the sound lilting in question. “Looking for the lube,” Yuri said, kissing his neck and then sitting up partway to search in earnest. He found it on the floor and swiped it, then watched Otabek’s face as he slicked up his hands and wrapped his fingers around Otabek’s cock. 

Otabek’s head fell back with a grunt. Yuri watched the color pool pink in Otabek’s cheeks and neck, felt his cock twitch in Yuri’s hand. Yuri bit at his own lip for the pressure against his teeth. 

“Beka, I want to ride you,” he said, already touching himself open with his wet fingers. Otabek sucked in a whimpering breath. 

“Fuck.” 

“Fuck yes or fuck no?” 

“Yes, fuck, but I’m -- not going to last long.” The pink washed across his cheeks in an earnest blush, and Yuri kissed his face as if he might taste it. 

“You’re fucking adorable, Altin. On top of everything else, you also have to be cute.” Otabek’s eyes slit open in reproach. Yuri laughed and kissed him again. “I want you to come,” he murmured against his lips. “It’s kind of my favorite part.” He sat up then, and, after a somewhat awkward maneuvering of his legs, began to lower himself onto Otabek’s cock. 

“Be careful,” Otabek said, gasping and gripping Yuri’s waist and staring up at him with concern that flickered with pleasure. Yuri braced his hands on Otabek’s chest and went slow, moaning softly as he took him deeper, his muscles stretching familiarly. Otabek panted Yuri’s name, the vowels growing longer and then dissolving with a gasp when Yuri had taken him completely. 

Yuri lolled his head to the side, just feeling Otabek’s cock throbbing inside of him. 

“You okay, Yura?” Otabek’s voice, strained from gasping, from holding back. He really was close. 

“Mmm hmm,” Yuri hummed, and again his palms flattened on Otabek’s chest. It occurred to him that he really didn’t know what to do, and also that he didn’t care. After all, he tried things without instruction or experience all the time, and it almost always turned out very well.

He lifted his hips once, just a little, and sank back down. Such a small thing, it seemed, and yet Otabek tossed his head to the side, a desperate sound pushing against his clenched teeth. 

The reaction went to Yuri’s head like a cloud of lust, and he repeated the simple lifting and lowering of his body, glad that it was as easy as it looked, and that he was an athlete, and that he could immediately set a hard pace. 

Otabek snarled, the feral sound cracking into a whimper. He squeezed his eyes shut but his mouth fell open around the sexiest panting noises that Yuri had ever heard. He thought suddenly of their late night skyping and the microscopic hints of emotion on Otabek’s face, his lips quirking .001 degrees for amusement, and now every current of pleasure was laid bare and raw before Yuri’s eyes.

The fact made Yuri moan especially hard, and he greedily aimed Otabek’s cock at his prostate. The shock of it jolted down to his toes. He yelped and pulled at his hair and struggled to control himself. One day soon, he would ride Otabek’s cock to orgasm without even touching his own dick once, but not now, not when Otabek was so close, his knees rising, his toes digging into the mattress so hard, Yuri could feel it. 

“Look at me, Beka,” Yuri said, his voice shaking for thrusting. 

“No,” Otabek managed from clenched teeth. “I’ll come if I look at you.” 

Yuri bit his cheek against a whimper. “Looking at me will make you come?” Yuri’s hairline was damp with sweat. His whole head was probably clumps of greasy blond, his face was certainly an oily red mess. He was sure he looked hideous. He moved his hands up Otabek’s slick chest and pistoned his hips even harder. “Look at me, Beka.” He sounded on the brink of something himself, some desperate need, and Otabek’s eyes flashed open, seeing him in a shimmer of brown. 

“Fuck!” Yuri saw the word fill his eyes before he threw his head back. The hot spurt of Otabek’s release made him cry out. He could feel how hard Otabek was coming and he growled, pumping his hips even faster, Otabek’s sounds all the sweeter for their softness. He felt the pleasure in the low notes of Otabek’s groans, like auditory velvet. Yuri was still hard and yet oddly sated. 

Eventually, Otabek was wrung out to voiceless panting, and Yuri had to get off of him and collapse onto his own back, breathing hard enough to burn. 

He stared up at the ceiling, creviced and cream colored, probably bumpy to the touch and had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. Bursting into euphoric laughter. _Bursting_. Ugh. He’d throw up on someone if they pranced around acting as happy as he felt. (He already made a ruckus with certain silver haired twits.) Maybe he wouldn’t, not now, that he understood. 

“Yura.” Beka sat up beside him, and cupped his cheek. When he kissed him, he reached down to gently palm Yuri’s erection. Yuri purred into his mouth. 

“Tell me what you want, Yura,” he murmured. “Anything.” 

“A Siberian tiger.” 

Otabek breathed a laugh, and took Yuri’s tongue into his mouth when it was offered. They kissed for awhile, Otabek’s hands burying deeper into Yuri’s hair, Yuri exploring Otabek’s back in handfuls, and the firm curves of his ass. 

“You can top, Yura,” he said, with a note of shyness. “I want that.” 

Yuri’s cock twitched with interest, mostly because of the desire that bled true in Otabek’s voice. 

“Do you, Altin?” he asked, biting down gently on his lower lip. “You want me to fuck you?” 

Otabek moaned an affirmative, and Yuri ducked his head into Otabek’s neck, surprised by his reaction, when he’d half expected the man to correct his language. They didn’t fuck, they loved. 

“I thought that’s what you were going to do earlier,” Otabek said. 

“I wouldn’t do that without asking first. I’m not a total asshole.” He swiveled around to recline against Otabek’s chest, smiling when Otabek stroked his hair. 

“Mmm, you’re not an asshole at all, Yura. You’re the kindest person I know.” 

Yuri tilted his head back to sneer at him. “Ew, you really must be stupid in love with me to believe that.” 

Otabek kissed his forehead. “Love you more than anything.” 

Yuri closed his eyes and again buried his face in the crook of Otabek’s neck. His skin tingled, like it was reacting chemically to Otabek’s words, his voice. Love could be tangible. He put his arms around Otabek and linked his fingers. 

Yuri was content to cling koala-style to Otabek, feeling bare in its every form, as Otabek stroked his hair. He hadn’t forgotten about his erection, obviously; the simple touches were more than enough to keep him hard. 

“Let’s try out the shower,” Yuri said, without letting go. 

“Right now?” 

“Mmm hmm.” Yuri lifted his head to look at him. “Want you to eat my ass in there.” 

Otabek’s eyes darkened and Yuri shivered, realizing that Otabek might want it even more than he did. So he was going to spend his first shower in their new home yelling in pleasure. He grinned and ran for the bathroom, Otabek literally chasing him. 

 

Much later, Yuri was sprawled across Otabek’s chest, trembling. 

“You okay?” Otabek asked, with deep concern, and Yuri had to laugh. The sound shook, too. 

“Can’t talk. Too fucked out. Also, laryngitis.” 

“Yura.” Otabek pushed Yuri’s hair away from his face. It was still wet from the shower, and balmy from sweat. 

At that moment, he couldn’t remember how many times he’d come. His mind had blurred from the pleasure, and his body hurt all over, with really good pain. Yet, he would always remember all the times Otabek had come, and his face, his sounds. The way he looked in the shower, water turning his hair into black paint that stuck to his cheeks and lips. (Very soon, Yuri would get Otabek inside an actual body of water, and do filthy things to him.) 

Otabek’s hand stilled on the small of his back. “Let’s get ready for bed?” 

Yuri turned his head enough to shoot him an incredulous look. “We’re in bed, genius. As for sleep, I’m not ready. I don’t want to stop.”

Otabek’s mouth curved up. The smallest smile, but full of love. Yuri would have licked it from his lips, if he could move. 

“Yura, we have to sleep. We have all day tomorrow. We have hours ahead, days and months. Years.” Otabek touched his cheek and Yuri turned to kiss his fingers. 

The words made him stupidly emotional. They landed in the places in his chest most raw from endorphins, and it felt so good it almost hurt. (A familiar sensation by then.) 

“This is my favorite night ever,” he grumbled. 

“Mine too.” 

“I’ve been waiting so long.” He sounded downright sullen, and Otabek smiled almost to laugh. 

“I’m glad you waited for me.” Otabek’s face turned soft. “I’m very lucky.” 

“Knock it off, we both know I’m the lucky one. I’ll fight you, Altin.” 

“Mmm, wouldn’t want that.” Otabek scooped him up, kissed him, lingering just beyond his lips for a moment before kissing him again. Like he couldn’t help it. Yuri smiled. 

“Lay down, Yura,” Otabek said, climbing out of the bed. “I’ll be right back.” 

“What -- why?” 

Otabek disappeared into the bathroom and Yuri laid down with a sigh. He supposed he didn’t need to accompany Otabek to the toilet, or forbid him from using it. 

But then Otabek emerged moments later with a wash cloth and sat down beside him. Yuri frowned. Cleaning up meant they were done. Straight up arguing this point wouldn’t get Yuri anywhere, so he tried a different tact. 

“What, am I dirty?” He husked up his voice and wrapped one leg around Otabek’s waist as he ran the damp cloth over his stomach. 

“Mmm.” Otabek smirked at him. “Filthy, Yura. You came all over yourself. Eight times.” 

“Kept count, did you?” Yuri was bothered that Otabek was one orgasm behind. “Whatever, so did I, and now I owe you one.” 

Otabek shook his head. “Yura. I am beyond satisfied. I don’t think I can come again, not tonight. Let me take care of you.” The plea turned Otabek’s eyes soft -- puppyish. Yuri groaned. 

“You’re fucking adorable. It’s killing me. You can actually kill me in every single possible way. You are perfect and good at everything.” 

“Yura.” Otabek kissed his shoulder. “My sweet Yura.” 

“Not sweet. Sour.” 

“Delicious. Every part of you.” He mouthed at Yuri’s neck.

“If you’re trying not to turn me on, you’re doing a terrible job.” And arousal was coursing familiarly south, though Yuri wasn’t sure he could or should come again, either. His balls actually hurt. 

“Sorry, kitten. Roll over, and I’ll finish cleaning you up.” 

Yuri obliged him with a dramatic sigh. But the wash cloth felt nice, the warm water soothing his muscles the stubborn burn of lust. Otabek dragged the cloth around his body for an unnecessarily long time, the lines of his fingers chasing the fabric as if to test the smoothness of Yuri’s skin. He pushed aside Yuri’s hair slowly, the strands dancing electric across Yuri’s back. 

Yuri hummed in pleasure. It was a quiet sensation; a powering down, not a working up. By now, Otabek abandoned the washcloth and massaged Yuri’s back with only the gentlest pressure of his palms. 

“You trying to pet me asleep, Altin?” His words slurred against the pillow. 

“Want me to stop?” He was serious. 

“Do I want you to stop touching me? Fucking of course not. Your hands are magic.”

Otabek hummed, and Yuri knew the tone of fond amusement so well. How many times had Otabek made those sounds at him? In how many ways had he confessed his love to Yuri over the years? And Yuri just hadn’t been fluent enough to understand. The language barrier was built from his doubts and fears. 

There was nothing between them now. Otabek’s hands were on him, unhurried, unafraid. Yuri could sleep and wake up and have him again. The gentle touches went to his head, spilled over him slowly, sparkling and galactic, and he wasn’t alone.


	9. Sappily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek has one more question for Yuri. (I wonder what it could be?!) But there's something he needs to do first...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shameless sap. It is so corny, you might turn into a corndog after reading it. But I couldn't have written it any other way. ~*~*~*
> 
> (The building housing Lilia's dance studio was based off of the Boris Eifman Dance Academy: https://www.arthitectural.com/studio-44-boris-eifman-dance-academy/)

It was just before five a.m., and too dark to see anything clearly, except for Yuri’s eyes. They were green enough to burn through a snowstorm. Otabek cupped his cheek, and Yuri licked at his thumb, inviting it into his mouth. Otabek closed his eyes as Yuri’s tongue rushed across his flesh. Yuri moaned so Otabek could feel it, and began to move hard again. 

They’d been going at it for half an hour, since Yuri’s alarm went off and Otabek kissed him awake and quickly wound up with Yuri in his lap, clothes flying off. Otabek loved early morning sex; he loved it in their current position, him sitting up, back to the headboard, and Yuri straddling him, taking him at his own pace. He loved (fucking loved) Yuri’s sounds. It had taken him a long time to build up stamina in bed with Yuri, and he could still be broken by Yuri’s moans. 

“Beka,” he murmured now, dragging his lips across Otabek’s forehead and whining. Otabek was close; he was always close. Deep inside Yuri, he couldn’t not be. Feeling the head of his cock hit that place of tender resistance, and Yuri tighten around him by reflex, it was a wonder he didn’t combust. 

Otabek cupped Yuri’s ass and pumped up into him harder, gasping when Yuri moaned. Yuri kissed him, grabbed his face and pressed his cheek flush against Otabek’s. 

“Close,” he said. Otabek moved one hand up to hold the back of his neck. Yuri’s hair was up in a messy bun, but stray threads of blond stuck to his skin. 

Otabek wanted to touch his dick, but Yuri had said no from the start. He wanted to come without being touched. It was his favorite way. 

Yuri’s little sounds grew closer together, his undulations staccato. “Beka, fuck, Beka...” His head tilted back, and Otabek’s mouth was drawn to the gorgeous length of his throat, where he could feel Yuri’s moans against his teeth. Yuri’s body jerked as he came, and his hands took Otabek’s back in handfuls, like he was slipping from a high place. Otabek held him as close as he could, wishing they were closer, that Yuri could come all over him. As it was, Otabek’s head was thrumming, he was so on the cusp himself, his entire lower body thrusting into Yuri’s tight heat. 

“Yura...” He hardly recognized the threadbare husk of his voice. He never did at these moments, existing as they did in some higher plane of reality. 

“So fucking...fuck,” Yuri panted, still riding out his orgasm. He cocked his head to the side and his eyes, pierced bliss hot, met Otabek’s in so much green, Otabek couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He came so suddenly, his voice rose in surprise. Yuri whined his name, buried his face in his hair. Otabek panted as he came, chewed the harder sounds from his lips as his cock pulsed into Yuri’s eager heat. His thoughts receded to shades of green and Yuri’s love sounds, and he felt gratitude sting him to the core. He still couldn’t believe this was real, that it was his. 

Otabek’s body begged to collapse, and Yuri knew this first, was already pulling him into his arms. Otabek buried his face in Yuri’s neck and allowed his body to go limp. Yuri held him with ease. He was so strong, scary strong. He was bark and bite. 

“Come here,” Yuri murmured, as if they weren’t already pushed close enough to merge into a single organism. He kissed the side of Otabek’s head and laid back, holding Otabek flat against his body. Otabek tried to move -- he always worried that he would squish him. But Yuri’s arms tightened. 

“Not yet,” he said, his lips brushing Otabek’s shoulder. Otabek turned his face into the aromatic softness of Yuri’s hair. He breathed in deeply, warmth sparking behind his eyes. 

“Sniffing my hair, perve?” 

“Mmm hmm.” He lifted up enough to kiss the smirk off Yuri’s mouth, and then eased his way down, feeling Yuri’s body with his lips. He knew so well the topography of Yuri’s body -- the ridge of his collarbone, the fullness of his nipples against his tongue (always already hard), the outline of his ribcage and the way Yuri’s stomach muscles tightened when touched. (Otabek had discovered the perils of Yuri’s ticklishness early on, when he’d teasingly licked his toe and wound up kicked in the face. He’d found it a lot funnier than Yuri had.) 

Otabek had put his tongue on nearly every inch of Yuri’s body, and had yet to be anything but even more enticed. Now, he licked up a line of Yuri’s come, humming deep in his chest at the taste. Yuri’s hand twisted into his hair, and one knee went up. 

“Let’s skip practice today,” Yuri said. 

“Yeah?” Otabek smiled and rolled onto his back, dragging Yuri on top of him. Yuri kissed him, humming an affirmative, his hands sliding through Otabek’s hair. He planted his knees on both sides of Otabek’s body and kissed him with silky slowness. Otabek ran his palms down Yuri’s back, over his ass, and considered what ailment or crisis they could invent that wouldn’t result in the investigations of their rink mates. The last time Yuri had been “sick,” so sick that Otabek chose to stay home and “take care” of him, Victor, Yuuri, and Mila had visited the apartment to check on them. Otabek and Yuri hadn’t even known this until they returned the next day, and Katsuki had been unable to look at them, Victor cheerfully advised them to tell the truth next time, and Mila asked how they hadn’t been kicked out yet for making so much noise. (Otabek used to worry about that very thing, but their corner location meant they only shared their kitchen wall with one neighbor, a single woman who worked odd hours as an ER nurse. “So we only fuck in the kitchen on special occasions,” Yuri concluded -- while Otabek had him bent against the counter on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon.) 

Yuri’s alarm went off again -- the “last call” alarm to rouse him in case he fell back asleep, which had never actually happened. But this wasn’t the first time it had interrupted their cuddling. 

Yuri burrowed his face into Otabek’s chest and groaned. “Beka, please throw my phone across the room.” Otabek reached over and silenced the shrill ring tone. 

“Come on, kitten.” He lifted Yuri up and then took his hand, heading for the shower. He couldn’t wait to get his hands in Yuri’s lathered up hair. 

 

They managed to arrive at the rink on time, but barely, and Yakov predictably groused as they walked in. The man was an expert grump and fluent in fury. Otabek better understood why Yuri communicated in yowls, when he’d spent his formative years in Yakov’s company for most of his waking hours. 

“I want the quad loop today, Otabek,” Yakov said to him, like a movie mob villain would say they wanted the money, or else. Otabek just nodded. Yakov liked his coolness, he could tell. It was probably a welcome reprieve from --

“Shut up, old man, why are you even here?!” Yuri was shouted at the overhang, where Victor stood, looking rather smug. He’d retired the year before, but continued to coach Yuuri. 

Yakov ordered Victor to shut up or leave -- a frequent ultimatum. Meanwhile, Mila was sailing along with Maxim, chattering about some Netflix show. The boy understood that Mila was not interested in him, but hope had settled warm and fluffy in his eyes. Otabek felt terrible for him; he remembered all too well how hope could hurt. He wondered if his own had been as obvious. 

(“No!” Yuri had assured him, once, before Otabek even finished the sentence.) 

Katsuki was already in a state of hyper focus, and seemed to generate dark energy with every stroke. Yuuri took up a lot of space when he skated. Not physical space, but atmospheric. Otabek could always feel what kind of mood he was in. Today, it wasn’t good. He was still recovering from knee surgery, and struggling to get his jumps back. Another situation that Otabek was all too familiar with. 

Otabek was back to his prime condition. Better, in fact. His component scores had increased substantially. A reporter once asked him if it was because he was in love with Yuri Plisetsky, and he said yes. (That thirty second clip had more views than his GPF winning long program.) 

He won silver at Worlds, behind Yuri. He’d peaked too early. Thus, Yakov was structuring the layout of his programs to help him peak later in the season. 

(“I can make you peak right now,” Yuri had said once, after overhearing one such conversation, and of course Otabek had permitted it. But now whenever Yakov said “peak,” Otabek felt his face grow hot.) 

Yuri passed Otabek, his hand grazing Otabek’s arm in a tingle of fingertips. Otabek watched him speed away in a blur of pale arms and shapely black leggings and lunar blond. He was so beautiful, and somehow that was the least of it. Just the way he extended his hands could fell Otabek like a hunted animal. Ice tiger indeed. 

His stomach felt perilously soft at the core as he considered the audacity of what he was going to do later. His heart skipped in agreement, and he found himself seeking the familiar forms of Mila, Katsuki, Victor. The desperate fear shied away at once. The feelings were his. The thing in his mind, the words he would say, the offer he would extend -- belonged to Yuri alone. 

And yet, he had plans to visit Nicolai after practice, and Yuri didn’t know. He had to tell the man first. It was an entirely different thing than telling anyone else. Otabek had grown close to Yuri’s grandfather; he knew Nicolai would want to be informed. He would want the chance to give his blessing. And Otabek wanted the chance to plead his case, if he was asked to do so. He was ready. But he’d been ready to marry Yuri for longer than he would ever admit. 

He refocused on the ice, banishing his thoughts to the stratosphere, like the shrink had taught him. Mindfulness, meditation, be present in your body and imagine your thoughts floating into the sky like so many balloons...

This didn’t help much. He was present in his body, but his intentions had taken residence there, too. He was full; pleasantly, unpleasantly. 

Yuri cast him a look from across the rink -- a flash of curiosity. Otabek smiled at him. Not a smile anyone else would detect, and more in his eyes than on his mouth. But Yuri smirked back and continued with his laps, reassured. 

 

By ten o’clock, Otabek was sitting at Nicolai’s humble (but blisteringly clean) kitchen table, his fingers snared around a cup of coffee. It was hot enough on his skin to hurt, but he did not recoil; the pain was an anchor. 

Nicolai was curious about his skating -- his practice that morning, the status of his quad loop (70%), if he’d finalized the cut of his music for the LP. In the initial weeks and months of his residence in Russia, Otabek was surprised by the extent of Nicolai’s skating knowledge. He knew the base value of jumps, the names of spins and choreographic moves, and (most surprising of all) he frequented message boards -- and fought with people on the internet. Anyone who talked shit about Yuri was eviscerated. Civilized criticisms of his skating would be met with mild manners, but if anyone leveled meanness at his grandson, Nicolai did not hold back. 

Nicolai kept his identity secret, of course, even from Yuri. Otabek found out one evening when the three of them were having dinner, and Yuri was talking about skating forum user RN2000. The person had shut down a thread that claimed Yuri used performance enhancing drugs, and Yuri had recognized them in a tweet.

“I wish I knew who that person was,” Yuri said. “I’d send them money, or zoo animals, or a car, whatever they wanted.”

“What if it’s you they want?” Otabek asked. (He’d already told Yuri what he feared: that RN 2000 was some perverted older man, or some crazed stalking Angel, maybe even the nurse next door, who would probably be happy to have a lock of his hair. “Not everyone has a fetish for my hair, Beka.” He’d punctuated the sentence with a flip of his ponytail.)

“They know I belong to you, Beka. They even said we are good together.” 

Otabek let it go, and the conversation moved on to other topics. But when Yuri went to the bathroom, Nicolai said, “Tell Yuratchka to sent the zoo animals. One of each.” 

And so Otabek wound up sputtering apologies for suggesting Nicolai was some internet predator, stalking his own grandson. Nicolai was greatly amused by Otabek’s mortification and his amazement. And Otabek was truly amazed. It seemed unfathomable that the chronically calm man could tell someone to get on the ice and kiss their own ass if they were indeed “just as flexible” as Yuri.

“I’m not offended,” Nicolai assured him. “You only wish to protect our Yuri. We have that in common. I am telling you about this so that you may have one less thing to fear.” 

Of course Otabek also took it as a threat. A soft threat on the “gentle reminder” side of the spectrum, the reminder being that Nicolai had the ferocity to fight for Yuri if need be, and Otabek shouldn’t forget it. 

So as Nicolai engaged him in friendly conversation, Otabek kept imagining the man reacting badly to Otabek’s news. Removing a gun from the cookie jar, kicking the table over, or just staring at him in cold silence (this one was somehow the scariest.)

“Have you thought any more about what we discussed?” Nicolai asked suddenly, and Otabek schooled an extra layer of stoic calm across his face. 

“Which thing?” he asked, swallowing around the sudden pounding of his heart. He’d been so focused on his own question, he couldn’t fathom what the man meant, or how anything else could be important ever. 

“College.” 

“Mmm, yes, I requested information from five schools.” He relaxed a little; school was a safe subject. 

“Are you leaning more towards engineering or music as your major? Or are you still undecided?” 

“Engineering,” he said. 

“Hmm.” Nicolai regarded him in silence, his eyes placid but focused, like the text was scrolling across Otabek’s face. “Because of the money.” 

“I do want financial security, yes,” Otabek said. “But I’ve always been interested in the subject.” He was squirming internally now. He wasn’t being dishonest; he’d made lists of pros and cons, researched earnings, read horror stories about people who earned a useless degree or just plain pursued a passion and got nowhere. Number one on his list for making the practical choice? Yuri, and their life together. Their house, their pets, their adventures. Otabek could still DJ, could still write music and perform.

(Yes, wrongness lodged in his chest at the idea, but he had made up his mind. He’d spent his entire life thus far following a dream. And it had led him to Yuri. He was lucky beyond reason, and wouldn’t become careless.) 

“And Yuri?” Nicolai asked. 

“He still doesn’t want to talk about college.” Yuri felt that college was reserved for retirement, and he was too young to worry about that. Otabek understood, though -- Yuri was scared. He was so defined by his skating, he didn’t want to even consider its end. He didn’t think he was good at anything else, which was ridiculous. 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Nicolai said. “But what I meant was financial security. Is that important to Yuri?” 

Otabek could practically feel every thought in his mind hit a wall. The answer was obvious, and the answer was no, and was this a test?

“I only ask because if you are going to marry my grandson, I think you two had better discuss such things.” 

Otabek actually choked on his spit like a moron. He coughed like he was dying, only just managing to croak, “Begyourpardon?” 

“Are you alright? Look at what I have done to you. I am sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Through the water in his eyes, he could see Nicolai’s remorseful expression, and he shook his head. 

“I am most pleased,” Nicolai went on. “Not by your current state, but that you wish to marry Yuri. You’re both still very young, but that only means you were lucky to find each other so soon. If you meant to seek my approval, you have it.” 

Otabek took a few clean breaths. Truthfully, he’d expected Nicolai’s blessing; he needed it for courage. But he hadn’t expected his psychic abilities. 

“Thank you,” he said. “It was important...I wanted you to know first.” 

Nicolai nodded, and there was fondness on his face now. “You are a respectful young man, but it is more than good manners. You care. You are true. I worried that Yurachtka would be a fool for love, and would fall easy prey to bad men. Imagine my relief when I caught him on the video phone with you, cooking together.” 

Otabek was full on blushing now, and with some guilt. Obviously, Nicolai had no idea about the late night phone calls...

“So, what else do you need from me?” Nicolai asked. “If you are worried that Yuri will say no, let me reassure you. I know my grandson. This is what he wants. When are you going to ask him?” 

“Today.” He tried to project dignity, but his face was sweltering. He would maybe never turn back to his normal color. “Towards the end of his ballet class.” 

Nicolai raised his eyebrows. “In front of others?” 

Otabek nodded once, carefully expressionless. “You’re right, he may not like that.” He hadn’t planned on seeking Nicolai’s advice, but now he realized he needed it. Still, his stomach sank a little. He’d been imagining this proposal for months. Yes, Yuri did declare his hate for “ambush proposals,” as seen in viral videos, in which some “dumbass” dragged a whole orchestra onto a street corner to surprise “some crying idiot.” (“Of course they’re not going to say no on camera, they’d look like an asshole. But the guy would deserve it.”)

But in front of a small room of his peers? 

“I think Yuri would like that,” Nicolai said. “It’s you I’m surprised by. You are so private a person. This must be a special place.” 

Otabek nodded. He wouldn’t go into it, and he knew Nicolai wouldn’t push. Otabek was indeed private, and some things he shared only with one person. A ferocious person who seemed an unlikely refuge. But there was no one safer to him, no one softer than Yuri. 

“That you trust my grandson enough to show yourself in such a way will mean a great deal to him,” Nicolai said. “I know such talk must embarrass you, but you could not do this wrong. Yuri will be overjoyed as I am. To say that you choose him over anyone else is the greatest gift. He has long believed that he had to prove his worth. Winning has always been important to him. You’ve made him believe that he is enough.” 

“So have you.” 

“In my own small way, perhaps. I have taken care of him. I fully trust you to do the same.” 

It wasn’t quite “hurt him and I’ll kill you.” It weighed far more than that. Such trust had the mettle of gold. Nicolai had faith in Otabek, and such a thing stood by itself, and to receive it now tested the seams of Otabek’s character. Nicolai watched him -- read his face, as he done earlier. 

Otabek felt the conviction unfurl in his chest and light his eyes. 

“I will. I swear it.” 

 

The building housing Lilia’s studio hadn’t changed much in the ten years since Otabek’s brief tenure as a student. It had won awards for its unique architecture, though from the outside, it’s front was almost ordinary -- white with three stories and lots of windows. But as Otabek approached the east side, he felt the usual flutter of admiration for the panes of glass that made up the outer walls. Round light fixtures dripped from the highest ceiling to the ground floor, like sun bursts of varying size. Each floor had a vibrant color theme: blue, purple, lime, and pink. Yuri was on the top floor -- the purple floor. Otabek stood on the landing and gazed up at the line of students on the bar, their backs to the window. 

He saw Yuri. There were a few blondes, but Otabek would know Yuri’s body in a sea of ballerinas. His stomach tugged, as if retracting from a blow. A spontaneous pulse of terror. 

Otabek took the stairs, the complex beauty of glass rooms within glass encasements like a strange dream. He remembered to breathe. An elevator would be faster, but fifteen seconds of tomblike silence and stillness would render him sallow. He’d stagger from the elevator like a dying man. He wanted to run, to invigorate. He was safest if he moved hard to the pounding of his heart. 

He arrived on the top floor and took a moment. He again saw the line of students on the bar, their faces, saw Yuri standing on one leg beside Mila, both of them stretching impossibly. Yuri said something, with a smile that he thought no one was watching, and Mila laughed. Lilia scolded them from the other end of the room, and then resumed helping another student. 

So Otabek was about to be deafened by Mila’s screams, and then promptly killed by Lilia, and the walls were glass so everyone would see. But there was Yuri, pulling him home. 

He walked inside, and a hush washed over his head. He didn’t know if it was real, but Yuri’s eyes were on him and he let himself smile. He walked past the chairs, not sitting like he was supposed to, not walking slow. 

“Beka?” Yuri said, amusement and alarm playing on his face. Otabek envisioned the eyes of the boy that had seen him all those years ago, burnt him without meaning to, and rendered himself unforgettable. 

Otabek dropped to his knees. Above him, Yuri blurred like he was made of water. 

“Oh my God!” someone yelled, not Yuri, who was descending until he was nearly on the floor, too. 

“Yura,” Otabek protested. Yuri stopped, understanding. Otabek held out his hand, the ring sitting bare on his palm. “Yura,” he repeated, staring because Yuri was so close, and his eyes were shimmering. All the color in his face had retreated there, and Otabek was held there, too, and he could nearly touch Yuri’s astonishment. He had a whole speech prepared, but he couldn’t remember a word of it, or any words at all, until he finally blurted out, “Will you?” 

“Yes! What the, what...Beka!” Yuri was on his knees in front of him now, extending his hand, and Otabek suddenly couldn’t breathe around the giddy shock swarming his chest. 

“Wha...you will?” 

“Of course, you idiot!” His voice nearly couldn’t hold the last syllable. “Put it on.” 

Otabek did, the silver band slipping over Yuri’s finger so smooth and he understood the symbolism with sudden clarity. A tangible intention to claim, to encompass. Flesh and silver. 

Yuri looked at the ring on his finger, looked at Otabek, and his face crumpled. Otabek pulled him into his arms and Yuri clung to him, shaking, smothering his sharp breaths into Otabek’s shoulder. 

“I love you,” Otabek murmured. “More than anything. I want you with me for the rest of my life.” 

Yuri’s hands clenched his jacket and he trembled even harder. Otabek kissed the side of his head. He wanted to steal him away even further into his arms, and be a living shelter. Yuri nuzzled his neck and moved his lips to kiss, and it was affirmation. 

Then Yuri turned enough to kiss him for real, and Otabek remembered the audience when those very people reacted with claps and cheers and giggles (there were tween girls among them.)

“Ugh, assholes,” Yuri mumbled, his eyes luminous from crying. “And you...you...” Yuri’s face twisted for lack of meanness. He kissed beneath Otabek’s eye and clung to him with renewed vigor. “Get me out of here.”

Otabek smiled. He lifted Yuri to his feet and braved his first look at their witnesses. Mila grinned at him and winked. He nodded at her and cast Lilia an apologetic look. But the dominant expression on her stately face was pride. 

Otabek ducked his head and turned as the blush rose on his cheeks. Yuri had his hand and pulled, a playful smile lilting his mouth. Otabek felt the words in his chest: _Are you coming or not?_

He nodded, and Yuri nodded back, and he felt the _yes_ charge between them, familiar as day one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and left kudos, and especially those of you who have commented. Every time I get an email alert for a comment, it makes my day. I was a little worried that very few people would read this story, since I finished it a year after Yuri on Ice premiered, and people were starting to lose interest in the fandom. (Other fics have been abandoned, the facebook pages don't update as often, that sort of thing.) This is the first slash fanfic I have ever shared (and finished, for that matter) and I was very nervous. But you have all been so wonderful and kind. Thank you, lovely lovelies. Here's hoping there is a season two (or a movie!) very soon.


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